Blood World

by Chris Mooney

  “And a place to house his carriers.”

  Another nod, and Frank said, “Paul needs to create a revenue stream because he doesn’t have a financial backer. Or he may not want one. I wouldn’t be surprised if Paul’s decided to do this all on his own.”

  Which had been Sebastian’s theory all along, Paul wanting to go it alone so he could control everything. A financial partner would want to know what made Paul’s blood so different from what was currently out there—the secret ingredients for his special sauce, so to speak. There was no way Paul would give that up. Once he told someone, he would run the risk of being cast aside, or killed.

  Early on, after the incident at the house, Sebastian had wondered if Paul would be stupid enough to approach either the Mexicans or the Armenians and try to partner with them. Such an action would have resulted in Paul’s death—which would have suited Sebastian just fine if it weren’t for the fact that Paul could easily hand over Sebastian’s name as that of the person who was manufacturing Pandora. Both organizations took what they wanted by force. When they found out Paul didn’t have an actual product, per se, just the recipe for one, they’d torture him until he spilled the information, and once it was verified, they would kill him.

  But almost four months had come to pass, and neither the Armenians nor the Mexicans had made a move. Paul, it appeared, was determined to keep quiet, do everything on his own. But he had to have people working with him—people he trusted, like Bradley Guidry.

  “And this is definitely carrier blood from a pregnant woman?”

  “I can’t say for sure,” Frank replied. “I’m going to hand those capsules over to Maya, have her test them for the gene as well as the pregnancy markers.”

  “Paul said he had a couple of carriers who were pregnant.”

  “And he’s adding more to his stable. Seven weeks after your attempted murder, two female carriers were abducted. One was twenty-six, the other twenty-four.”

  “You don’t know for sure Paul was behind the abductions.”

  “Actually, I do.” Frank dipped his fingers into his inner suit jacket pocket. He came back with a folded piece of paper and handed it to Sebastian.

  Two photographs, each taken of the front windshield of a different car—a Honda Accord and a Toyota Camry. Both photographs showed the same man behind the wheel: Bradley Guidry.

  Frank said, “The photos are from traffic cameras posted near where the women were abducted. I enhanced them.”

  “Where’d you get these? Our LAPD contact?”

  Frank shook his head. “I obtained them myself,” he said. “I now have what’s called root access to the servers used by highway patrol. I won’t bore you with the technical details—”

  “Thank you.”

  “—but suffice it to say, I can get in and out without being detected. After Ron sent me Guidry’s picture, I went to work. I got lucky.”

  It was about goddamn time some luck had been thrown their way. “What about Guidry’s car? You know the make and model. Got a plate?”

  “He used a stolen car both times. Both vehicles have not yet been recovered, I’m told. As for gleaning any useful information about the actual abductions, my contact says they were clean jobs—no witnesses or evidence.”

  “Gleaning,” Sebastian said. “Look at you, Mr. Walking Dictionary.”

  “Trying to educate you,” Frank replied in his characteristic dry tone. “Through osmosis.”

  Sebastian cracked a grin—a rarity these days.

  Frank said, “If Paul had any capital, he wouldn’t be going the pill route. It’s a short game and, I’m sure he knows, very risky. Raising money with these pills—I think it safe to say your original theory about him not having anyone backing him is correct.”

  “And probably the reason why he’s been quiet these past few months. He’s building his own infrastructure, and that takes time, and capital, no matter how small that infrastructure. How did Ron come by this information?”

  “One of Ron’s people happened to be at a club, a place called Deliverance, which is conveniently located right over there.” Frank pointed out the windshield, at a building across the busy street.

  It was a two-floor structure that took up nearly the entire block—sort of like a little mall plaza you’d find in a nicer part of Mexico. The Spanish architecture was clear—a courtyard behind brick pillars wrapped with strings of party lights where people sat at tables, eating and drinking; flat red roofs, doorways, and windows designed with Moorish influence. But a closer look revealed a more Tuscan aesthetic, with the exterior’s intricate masonry. The windows, he noticed, were stained glass.

  “Ron’s guy spotted someone he was sure was Paul dealing drugs,” Frank said. “Paul looks different now—wore glasses and grew out his hair. No more military buzz cuts. Ron’s guy tried following Paul, to get a closer look, but lost him. But he approached the guy he spotted buying the drugs, and when Ron’s person pretended to be an undercover cop, the kid handed over the bag you’re now holding and explained what it was.”

  “I take it there’s a reason behind tonight’s field trip.”

  “The guy selling the blood pills? I’ve received word he’s here tonight, at the club. We’re watching him as we speak.”

  Frank’s phone chirped twice. He looked down at the screen.

  “We have him. Let’s go. I’ve already got a place nearby where we can have a nice, friendly chat.”

  CHAPTER 19

  THE KID’S NAME was Enrique Sabino. He was small, a hair shy of five foot seven, and built like a drinking straw, with thin arms and legs and a mop of thick black hair that hung in long bangs over his forehead and eyes. With the exception of his crotch, nearly every inch of his olive skin was smooth and hairless. Sebastian knew this because he could see nearly every inch; Ron’s men had stripped Enrique to his birthday suit before tying him down, with plastic zip ties, to a battered and dirty rolling desk chair held together by duct tape.

  Sebastian didn’t like it when Frank stripped guys down for interrogation. Their junk shriveled up, and more often than not they pissed and shit themselves—sometimes from fear, almost always when Frank went to work on them. Torture was Frank’s domain, and he insisted on setting the stage and mood right from the very beginning. People felt vulnerable when they were naked, Frank liked to say, and were more inclined to tell the truth.

  Enrique was definitely on the right path. Head hung low and eyes slammed shut, he shivered from fear and from the cold and from the sobbing, an ugly and heartbreaking mewing that echoed inside the tiny bay of the auto garage. It was a sound Sebastian recognized all too well: I don’t belong here. I can’t die—not now, not in a place like this.

  Sebastian stood in front of him, reading, by flashlight, the detailed file Frank had prepared on the boy. Sebastian took his time; there was no need to rush. The garage had gone into foreclosure, so no one would be stopping by, and Frank had disabled the alarm system installed by the bank. If the kid screamed, that was fine, too. The place was in a strip mall that had tanked. Frank, as always, had done his homework.

  Sebastian handed the file to Frank and said, “How about giving us some privacy?”

  Frank didn’t argue. He nodded to Ron’s three men, and they filed out the side door, into the night. The door shut with a bang that made Enrique jump in his seat.

  Sebastian sat down in the stiff plastic chair brought in from the tiny waiting room off the front door. He crossed his legs and sighed, seeing his breath plume in the air. The garage smelled of grease and the kid’s sweat and cheap cologne.

  “That file I was just reading,” Sebastian said, bundled in a warm Patagonia jacket and a pair of thin black leather gloves. “It says you’ve got a kid. What’s his name, again? Your son’s.”

  Enrique mumbled something under his sobs.

  “Sorry, I didn’t catch that,” Sebast
ian said.

  “Jonathan.” Enrique snorted, blinking away tears. “His name is Jonathan. He’ll be four. In February.”

  “Great age.” Sebastian looked behind Enrique, at the wall of shelving and pegboards holding a wide assortment of auto parts and tools. “What’s the deal with your girlfriend? Carmella. You love her?”

  The kid’s head bobbed up. Snot and tears ran down his lips and chin, dripping onto his lap.

  “Do you love her?” Sebastian asked again.

  “Yes,” the kid replied, his voice clear. “With all my heart.”

  Sebastian believed him. His eyes were bloodshot and wet, but Sebastian could see the emotion in them.

  “Where’d you guys meet? High school?”

  “Middle school,” Enrique replied.

  Sebastian’s eyebrows jumped. “Really?”

  Enrique sniffed, trying to wipe his mouth and nose against his bare shoulder since his forearms were tied down to the chair’s armrests. “We’ve known each other since we were kids.”

  “Was it one of those things where you looked at her and you just knew?”

  Enrique nodded. Snorted.

  “I had one of those, a long time ago,” Sebastian said. He groaned as he got to his feet, his knees popping, and he moved to the tools. “That type of love doesn’t come around too often. If it does and you’re anything like me, you’d sell your soul to the devil to protect it. To keep it.”

  When Sebastian came back, he reached for the kid’s head. Enrique flinched, bucking against his restraints, and screamed.

  “Relax,” Sebastian said softly, and used the dirty blue rag he’d found to wipe the snot away from Enrique’s face. “I saw a picture of her. In the file. Carmella’s a very pretty woman. I’m sure you want to give her the world—am I right? Her and your son.”

  The kid didn’t answer.

  “You an alcoholic?” Sebastian asked, tossing the rag aside. “An addict?”

  “No, sir. I’m clean, I swear.”

  “I’m not judging. I’m one. An alcoholic. Although, if I’m being honest, I’m probably an addict, too, even though I’ve never done coke or any of the other hard stuff. But if I tried it even now, even with all the sobriety I have? I’d be hooked”—Sebastian snapped his fingers —“just like that.”

  Sebastian picked up his chair and moved it closer. “What I’m trying to say is, I know myself. I know my true nature. It will never change. That’s what recovery has taught me. That and probably the single most important life lesson: the importance of accountability.”

  Enrique swallowed several times, his throat working.

  “No one can make me drink or use, Enrique. I’m the one who decides whether to pick up a drink or a drug. Sure, I can blame it on people, places, and things—a divorce, death, accident, what have you—but when you really stop and analyze it, those things can’t make me drink or use. It’s my decision. Which brings us to you and your current situation.”

  Sebastian sat a few inches away and leaned forward. He could smell the sour odor rising from the kid’s armpits, the product he used in his hair.

  “File I have on you says you work full-time at a Best Buy selling electronics or some shit,” Sebastian said. “Carmella is a waitress at that Italian place that’s in walking distance from your apartment. I’m guessing that’s not really paying the bills, which is why you got into selling those blood pills—am I right?”

  “My son—he’s—” Enrique cut himself off. His jaw trembled, his eyes filling with fresh tears.

  “What about your son?”

  “He needs me. He’s got issues.”

  “What’s wrong with him?” Then, when Enrique didn’t answer, “Go on, tell me. I want to know.”

  “We think he’s autistic. Pretty sure he is. The health insurance I’ve got is for shit. Specialist we want him to see isn’t covered and he’s expensive, but he’s the best in the state.”

  Sebastian nodded in understanding. “So you’re trying to make some extra money to do the right thing by your kid, your family. I can respect that. Would do the same thing if I were in your shoes, probably.

  “I appreciate your candor, Enrique, so I’m going to extend you the same courtesy. Truth is, I’m not really all that interested in you. Now, the man you work for, the one who gave you those pills—that’s who I’m after.”

  Enrique opened his mouth to speak. Sebastian said, “Before you answer, let me tell you how this works, since you’re new to this. I’ve got a file on you. My people have been following you for about a week now, so I know things about you. You with me so far?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Now, if you answer my questions truthfully, you’ll get to go live your life with your girlfriend and kid, get him to that specialist, see him grow up. Flourish. If you lie, well, then that’s on you. You do that, then you’re forcing me to open that door behind you and let those animals back in and have their way with you until I get the information I want. It’s that simple, okay?”

  “Yes. Yes, ask me anything.”

  “We’ll start with an easy one. These pills—what are they?”

  “They’ve got carrier blood in them. Supposed to get you super horny and get you off.”

  “Have you tried them?”

  Enrique shook his head. “I just sell them for extra money. At the nightclubs.”

  “And who supplied you with these pills?”

  “Gee-Gee.”

  “And that would be . . . ?”

  “Guy I grew up with, Gerry Gambles. We call him Gee-Gee.”

  That name wasn’t in Frank’s file. Ron’s people had shadowed Enrique for a little over a week, said the kid pretty much went to work and then straight home to be with his kid and girlfriend. But Frank had taken the kid’s phone and would no doubt be working his magic on it, sucking out all the contacts.

  “Me and Gee-Gee go way back. We’re tight,” Enrique said. “I tell him everything. I told him about my kid, and he told me how I could make extra money, and I said yes.”

  “How many people are selling these pills?”

  “I don’t know exact numbers. I know Gee-Gee sells ’em, and that’s it. He hits the nightclubs, too. The ones downtown.”

  “Okay. Good. This is very helpful. Do you know who I am?”

  “No, sir, I do not.”

  “Enrique, look at me.” Then, when Enrique did: “What did I say about lying?”

  “I don’t know your name or the other guy’s.”

  “What other guy?”

  “The one who was standing next to you. The guy holding my phone.”

  “Frank?”

  “I don’t know his name or your name or the names of the others. When I agreed to sell, Gee-Gee showed me pictures, a whole bunch of ’em, of about ten, maybe fifteen guys. Told me that if we saw any of them, we were to leave whatever it was we were doing and call him.”

  “Call Gee-Gee?”

  “No, the guy running the thing. Paul.”

  The name raised the hammers in Sebastian’s heart and flooded his veins with adrenaline.

  “I don’t know his last name, I swear,” Enrique said.

  Sebastian felt a peculiar thirst in the back of his throat. His limbs were humming now, ready for a fight—the way he’d felt, back in the day, when he’d step into the boxing ring, ready to knock someone right the fuck out.

  His silence, or maybe the look on his face, maybe both, made Enrique shudder. “I don’t know his last name,” Enrique said again, his voice trembling with fear. “I swear to God I don’t.”

  “What’s he look like, this guy Paul?”

  “He’s all swole. Like a bodybuilder. He’s tall, black hair and—”

  “Black hair,” Sebastian said.

  “Yeah. Black as ink. He’s got all these really weird, or really
cool, tattoos, depending on your point of view. And he—” Enrique cut himself off, straightening. “I can tell you.”

  “Tell me what?”

  “Where he is.” Enrique’s face brightened with triumph. “It’s not too far from here. Half an hour, maybe forty-five minutes.”

  “Where?”

  “Cudahy.”

  Sebastian knew the area, of course. Cudahy, located in southeastern Los Angeles County, was the second smallest city in Los Angeles, the place named after some meatpacking magnate or some shit. And Enrique was right about Cudahy being close by.

  “Gee-Gee couldn’t pick up the new supply of pills, asked me to do it,” Enrique said. He was speaking clearly now, the fear having been temporarily pushed aside by the excitement of holding what he believed was a winning lottery ticket—not for money but for his life. “Paul was there, and he gave me the pills.”

  “We talking apartment, house, what?”

  “House. Yellow stucco. Red clay roof, and a garage—an attached garage. I know the address.” Enrique eagerly gave it up without any prompting.

  As a real estate agent, Sebastian had access to an app that could pull up the details for any house in the state of California. He used it now and typed in 143 Cypress Drive. It had been listed for sale until the middle of July, when it was pulled from the market, for reasons that weren’t noted.

  The listing came with pictures. Sebastian tapped on one showing the front of the house. He enlarged it until the photo filled the screen and then showed it to Enrique.

  “That’s it,” Enrique said. “That’s the place.”

  Here it was, finally, everything he, Frank, Ron, and his men had been searching for all these months. Sebastian felt a joy that bordered on rapture. He wanted to jump to his feet and rush out the door, sprint straight for US Route 101 North and run all the way to Cudahy. He could do it, too. His blood was caffeine.

  Sebastian patted the kid’s knee. “You did good. I need you to hang tight for a little bit until I get this sorted out, okay?”