by Phil Tucker
Chapter Six
She sat back and turned to stare at Hernan. Their knees were almost touching. The gun gleamed dully in the afternoon light. A faint sheen of sweat covered his brow, and he all but ignored Cloud, keeping the gun aimed squarely at her chest.
“Hernan,” said Selah.
“Shut up. No talking.”
Selah studied him. There was no way either of them could jump Hernan before he could squeeze off a shot. At this range there was no way he could miss. She felt herself grow calm. Grow cool. His pupils had dilated, consumed the muddy brown of his irises until they seemed almost black. He was scared, she realized. Of her. Of being this close to her, of being alone with her in the chopper. What had Ramonito told her? The guards thought she was a vampire? No. That she was possessed by an evil spirit.
Hernan swallowed, gritted his teeth, and squared his shoulders as if settling in for a long wait. His hand rested on his knee, the muzzle pointed right at her stomach.
“Hernan.” An idea formed in her mind. “Do you know what I am?”
“I said to shut up.”
“Not who I am. What I am. Did Padrino Machado tell you what I carry inside me?”
“Calla te, carajo!”
He couldn’t just shoot her for talking, she realized. Nor could he strike her, opening himself up to Cloud. His threats were empty.
“I carry a demon inside me, Hernan. Have you heard of Sawiskera, the vampire king? I killed him. I thought he would die when I tore off his head. But he didn’t die. He was too strong, too old, too powerful. Do you know what happened next?”
Hernan flicked his eyes over to Cloud, then back to Selah. Licked his lower lip, and then turned his gun on Cloud. “Shut your mouth or I’ll shoot him. It’s you they want, not him. Don’t think I won’t do it.”
Selah pressed on. “Black smoke came out of his neck. Oily smoke. It smelled so bad, Hernan, like it was coming right up from the pits of hell. It came to me, like it was alive, and poured into my nose, my mouth. My eyes, Hernan. It came in through my eyes.” Selah felt a power gathering in her voice. Felt a strange, heady thrill as she watched the man before her quail, his courage guttering like a candle by an open window.
“It’s in me now. Inside me. You know what would happen to me if you shot me? If you killed me like I killed Sawiskera?”
Hernan shook his head. He was staring at her, fascinated.
“That black smoke would come out, Hernan. The demon. It would come out of each little bullet hole, and float into the air. A small cloud would form, right here in the helicopter. And then it would go for you, Hernan. Into your mouth. Your ears. Through your eyes. Into your soul. And you would become a monster, a demon yourself. Like me. A vampiro.”
Hernan cast a desperate look out the window. Nobody was on the rooftop. The far door was still closed.
“You can’t kill me, Hernan. Because if you do, you won’t die. Nothing so easy as that. No. You will become damned. You will go to hell. Look in my eyes. You know it’s true. You know that’s why Machado is taking me to the vampires. Why I am so important. Why his healing failed. I’m damned, Hernan. And if you kill me, it will be you Padrino Machado takes into the Core and gives to the demons. You.”
Hernan cursed in Spanish and scooted back against the door, fumbling for the catch with his free hand while keeping the gun trained on her. Cloud shifted next to her, ready. She realized what Hernan was going to do—try to lock her in the helicopter.
“Shoot me,” she whispered, moving toward him. “Set me free. Save me! Save me, Hernan!” She reached out for him. He yelled, terrified, and threw open the door, falling out onto the landing pad below. Selah jumped right after him. Landed on Hernan as he sought to get up, and knocked him back down. He screamed, revolted, terrified, and dropped the gun, intent on just pushing her off him, on scooting out from under her. Selah laughed, crazed, delirious, and held on, clutched him, wrapping both legs around one of his own. His eyes rolled in his head like those of a panicked horse, and he bucked and thrashed, shoving at her face, kicking at her with his free leg.
Cloud jumped down next to them and scooped up Hernan’s gun. Selah released him and rolled over onto her side, her shins raw where Hernan had scraped his boot down their length, her breath rasping in her throat. Hernan lay frozen, staring up at the muzzle.
“Up,” said Cloud. Hernan gave Selah a terrified glance, and then shook his head. “Get up!” yelled Cloud, and kicked Hernan in the hip. The man let out a cry and stood, hunched over, hands up around his head. For a terrible moment she thought Cloud was just going to shoot him. “OK, on your knees. Come on. Down!” Hernan’s breathed in fast gasps. He laced his hands behind his head without being told and lowered himself down. Closed his eyes, and began to pray in Spanish.
Selah watched as Cloud lifted the gun, bit his lower lip, and then brought the base of the grip down as hard as he could on the back of Hernan’s head. Hernan toppled over and lay still.
“Shit,” said Cloud. “Is he still alive?” Selah checked Hernan’s pulse. Looked up to Cloud and nodded. Cloud lowered the gun. “All right. We’ve got to find Chico.”
Selah patted Hernan’s pockets and pulled out a pair of sunglasses. “This is where I don’t make any comments about Padrino Machado’s moral character.”
Cloud simply leveled a look at her while she grinned and put on the shades. Together they jogged over to the door that led into the building, and Cloud tried the handle. It turned, and they stepped into a dark stairwell that only led down. Entering, breath loud in the confined space, they descended a floor and paused at an emergency fire door, its shape traced by faint light.
“Down?” Cloud was an indistinct form next to her.
“Yes,” she decided. “Let’s get out of this building, and then figure it out from there. Less chance of running into Padrino that way.”
They ran down four more flights, and then cracked open a door that exited into a large lobby. From within the stairwell they couldn’t see much, but enough to tell that the lobby retained the same cheerful décor of its last days as a hospital. Light came in through the glass revolving doors at the front, and a man sat on a bench, reading a book.
“Chico!” called Cloud, hurrying forward. The man looked up and smiled, an expression that warmed his face and reduced his eyes to slits behind his glasses. He set the book aside and rose to his feet. Selah followed after, examining him. Chico was a kind of hero to Cloud, who’d only ever spoken of him in glowing terms. They’d met online a few years ago when Cloud was first beginning his Miami rebellion, and the older man had proved a constant source of inspiration and guidance. He’d been training to be a Jesuit when the War broke out and had interrupted his studies to help the community. He’d never returned to his calling, but had instead fallen into the role of community organizer and counselor. His occasional publication of an almost haiku-like poetry layered with meditations on violence and transience, mortality and grace had earned him national recognition and had inspired Cloud to reach out to him for help and advice.
“Cloud,” said Chico, embracing the taller man tightly and then stepping back. “And this is Selah? Hello. Welcome to LA.” His smile took on a faint touch of irony.
“Man, is it good to see you,” said Cloud. “But we’re in trouble. This guy called Padrino Machado tried to kidnap us. We just escaped from his chopper on the roof.”
Chico’s eyebrows shot up. “You flew in with Machado?”
“Yeah. It’s a long story. But what do we do? Should we hide?”
Chico placed a knuckle over his lips as he lowered his chin and thought. “We could. I was waiting here for Armando. He wants me to be in on this talk with Machado. I think perhaps we should wait here for him.”
“You sure?” asked Selah. “Padrino seems like an important man. What if he just demands Armando hand us over?”
Chico smiled. “That would not be the best way to handle Armando. In fact, that is perhaps one of the main reasons we’re having th
ese talks in the first place. Armando has grown very tired of Padrino’s demands.”
Selah looked around uneasily, and then spotted a couple of armed men standing outside the glass doors, facing the parking lot beyond. She took a deep breath. It was hard to curb the instinct to keep running. “What are these talks about? Why are you involved?”
Chico’s smile became thoughtful. “Armando’s thinking about quitting the Blood Dust trade. He values my opinion because—I think he appreciates the space I give him to reimagine himself. Though he often becomes very angry at my questions. But why is Padrino interested in you? Is it because of your condition?”
“Yes,” said Selah, trying not to sound curt. “It’s gotten worse. Padrino Machado tried to do a healing, and it didn’t go well. Then he lied and said he would bring us to you, when in reality it turns out he’s been meaning to hand us over to the vampires all along.”
Chico nodded, examining her face. “I see. I’m sorry to hear that.” Before he could ask anything more, they heard the sound of a door opening down a hallway and footsteps, voices. A number of people were approaching. Chico subtly positioned himself before Cloud and Selah, linking his hands behind the small of his back.
A dozen men rounded the corner beyond the front desk, armed with a motley collection of assault rifles, handguns, and machine guns. They were a hard-bitten lot, mostly Hispanic with a few black members, tattoos up and down their arms and around their necks. They talked quietly to themselves, but all seemed deferent toward the two men who walked in their center, at their forefront. One was Padrino Machado. The other had his hands laced behind his neck, frowning at the ground as he went, oblivious to the crew behind him.
Armando, the leader of the Buena Vista Locos. He was clearly in a foul mood. Stocky, heavyset, in his midtwenties with heavy muscle and a heavier belly, he was staring furrows of anger through the ground before him. Tattoos scrawled up his arms, visible around the edges of his tank top, and his hair was cut close to the scalp. Though he wasn’t attractive, his face had a striking strength, a pugnacious intensity that caught the eye and made the rest of his armed gang seem to fade into the background.
Padrino Machado had been talking quietly to him, but stopped at the sight of Selah, Cloud, and Chico. Selah reached up to adjust the shades. Armando noticed them at the same time, and turned to Chico with a frown. “Who the fuck are these two?”
“They’re my guests,” said Padrino Machado quickly, his face flushing with anger. “My escaped guests. They should be upstairs in my chopper.”
Chico’s face was grave. “Armando, they’re friends of mine. Cloud and Selah. Padrino Machado was kidnapping them. They need your protection.”
“My protection?” Armando glared at Cloud, looking up and down his frame in a challenging manner, and then did the same to Selah. “Why the hell should I care?”
“They are none of your concern,” said Padrino, stepping forward smoothly. “I’m sorry for this—annoyance. I’ll take care of them.”
Armando lifted his chin, and ran his forefinger and thumb down his neck, as if checking for stubble. He dropped his hand and turned to face Machado full on. “You telling me what I should be concerned about on my own turf?”
“I—no.” Padrino gave Armando a pained smile. “A suggestion, perhaps. These two need to be taken to Arachne and Louis. Who would be most upset if they found out later there was a problem with the delivery.”
“That sounds like a threat.” Armando sniffed. “That a threat?”
Padrino Machado opened his mouth, searched for words, and then closed it. Met Armando’s gaze, and his expression turned cold. The dozen men who’d followed Armando in were on alert, watching the pilot and second guard who had subtly moved closer to Machado.
“Armando. I am here to remind you of your loyalties.” Padrino’s voice had taken on a chilly authority. “To remind you of what powers stand behind your fortune.” He raised his arm and pointed at Chico. “This fool is filling your head with impossible dreams. When I say you stand on the edge of ruin, it is no threat, it is the truth. Now come. Let me take these two back to my helicopter, and then we can sit and talk like men. There is no need for this. No need.”
Armando nodded, tonguing his cheek and looking around the lobby without seeming to see anything in particular. He rolled his broad shoulders and then cracked his neck. “Maybe I see a need.”
Padrino’s face seemed to petrify. “Are you sure about this, Armando?” His voice was hollow, cold. “You ready for what comes next?”
Armando smiled. “Yeah, you know what? I think I am. I’m tired of your voodoo shit. I’m tired of your orders from above. Most of all? I’m tired of slinging your fucking Dust while pretending things are getting better. So yeah, I am.”
“All right, then. It seems this meeting is already over. Nice knowing you, Armando.” Padrino Machado tugged at the lapels of his linen suit, nodded to his two men, and then strode past Armando toward the emergency stairwell. As he passed, he raked Selah with a frosty glare, his eyes as furious and flat as those of a raging junkyard dog. His face, however, remained inscrutable.
When the echoes of the slamming stairwell door had faded, Chico took a step forward. “Armando. Thank you.”
Armando roused himself, and pointed a stubby finger into his face. “You shut your mouth. When I want you to speak, I’ll tell you. Till then? Not a damn word.” He turned and plowed his way back through his men, almost knocking them aside, and disappeared back around the corner. After a moment, his men followed after, muttering amongst themselves.
Cloud ran both hands through his hair. “Damn. What the hell’s going on around here?”
Chico rubbed at his eyes, inserting his fingers beneath the lenses of his glasses. “Armando’s sister died last week of a Dust overdose. He’s been threatening ever since to quit dealing.” He dropped his hands and gave them both a tired smile. “Looks like he’s committed himself. Come. Let’s go across the street to the park. Armando will look for me there when he’s ready.”
They pushed through the doors and out into the fading sunlight. The air had the same smoky, particulate feel to it, though now Selah also detected the salt tang of the ocean. Selah closed her eyes. She thought of Mama B, of her father. Collect yourself. Gather your strength, girl. She stood still, feeling the faint warmth of the sun on her skin. Focused her thoughts so that she was fully present, fully engaged in the moment. Forced down her doubts, her fears, and opened her eyes.
Chico crossed the parking lot, cars sunken on flat tires, windows shattered, paint faded and bubbled from years in the sun, and out across the street beyond. People moved about, some sitting on stoops, though the area seemed less densely populated than it had seemed from the sky. Chico led them down the block and stopped at the border of a small park squeezed between two tall buildings.
It was pleasant, the grass dried out to a faded yellow and crunching underfoot, the trees spreading their wizened limbs in snaking lines so that shade extended in soft lozenges over the ground. Up ahead was a small pond, a picturesque bridge arching over it.
“This is where I spend a lot of time,” said Chico, leading them toward a bench. “This past week, at any rate. You guys have arrived at a pretty important moment. If Armando and his Locos really do stop dealing Dust, it could mean a potential cascade of changes, and almost all of them for the better.”
“Everything seems to revolve around Blood Dust,” said Selah.
“More than you know,” said Chico. “ It comes from inside the Core, and people say it’s made from vampire blood. I don’t know if that’s true, but it’s very addictive, and very destructive. It’s also far more lucrative to deal than anything else, which is why all the big gangs focus exclusively these days on trafficking it. Las Culebras, the Buena Vista Locos, all of the others. They extract it from the Core, and ship it out of the city to wholesale dealers around the country. I don’t know how much money is involved, but I know it’s a lot. And that money is what has al
lowed Armando and the other leaders to bribe the military, which has opened the way for them to deal even larger amounts.”
“So if Armando quits dealing Blood Dust …?”
Chico nodded. “Yes. He loses his main source of income. Which is why he’s refused to think about it thus far. But with his sister’s death, everything’s changed.”
“But what’s Machado got to do with all this?” asked Cloud. “I thought he was supposed to be just some kind of spiritual advisor.”
“Machado set this all up,” said Chico. “He’s the man that connected the gangs to the vampires, back in the day. I don’t know how he got involved with them, but he’s like some kind of shadow Godfather outside the Core. He basically picked which gangs made it big by supplying them with Dust. Now he just maintains things, makes sure people toe the line. And makes sure those that don’t get punished. Armando knows this. He knows that if he gives up dealing, Machado will hook somebody else up, and all that money will go to some other gang. Who will challenge the Locos, or Armando himself for the leadership. It’s an incredibly dangerous move for him.”
“But if he does go through with it,” said Selah, “then—what?”
Chico spread his hands. “That’s the exciting part. We don’t know. He controls a truly huge area. Anaheim, Buena Vista Park, all the way up to the walls of the Core. If he says no more Blood Dust in his area, it would send a message to the other gangs, the people of the city. It would be a step back toward a civil society. Armando would be positioning himself as a more moral leader, and who knows? Perhaps he could be convinced of other reforms, and some justice and peace could come back to LA.”
“Or riots and gang war,” said Selah. “Other gangs trying to muscle in on his territory, and him having to fight back on all sides.”
“Right.” Chico nodded, face grim, and sighed. “It won’t be easy. But it’s the right thing to do. And it all comes down to this one man, this one decision. If he says no more? Then we step into the whirlwind, and Armando will truly be tested. I’m trying to put together a basic system of taxation for him. Trying to work with a number of government departments and organizations who are tentatively promising support, even recognition of him as a political leader. There is a lot that he will sacrifice, but he will gain a lot as well. It’s all going to depend on his political calculus. His moral resolve.”