Mob rules uc-1

by Cameron Haley

  We were cruising through the ghetto version of a light industrial area when Moon Dog growled. I saw junk piled high beyond a line of corrugated fencing. A sign on the double chain-link gate read Luther's Salvage.

  "This the place?" I asked. Moon Dog chuffed.

  I parked on the street and got out of the car. I popped the trunk and fetched the Mossberg pump-action clipped in next to the tire jack. Usually, I don't bother carrying anything heavier than my forty-five, but I was behind enemy lines and the junkyard had the look of a place where a shotgun might keep you out of trouble. I pulled a handful of shells out of a tackle box and dropped them in my jacket pocket.

  Then I closed the lid, perched on the trunk with the Mossberg across my knees and waited for dawn. Moon Dog hopped out of the car and sat on his haunches, staring at the junkyard.

  "You don't have to go in with me, Moonie," I said. "That's not really what you signed on for. Anyway, once it gets light, Fred won't be much more than a corpse. I guess I can handle it."

  Moon Dog turned and looked at me, yellow eyes shining like lanterns. He chuffed and turned back to the junkyard.

  Another hour went by like that. The sky brightened, the ghetto went to sleep and the sun came up.

  The salvage yard wasn't due to open for another three hours and it was quiet. I spun the B amp;E spell on the padlocked gate, and Moon Dog and I slipped inside. Luther apparently wasn't much on organization, and there was no apparent pattern to the shapeless piles of rusting junk scattered around the yard. Narrow, ragged paths cut between the twisted stacks, and the rising sun painted them orange.

  Moon Dog found a path he liked and padded down it, his nose low to the ground. I went after him. We followed a bend around a tangle of rusting rebar and Moon Dog stopped, crouching low and raising his nose to the air. He sniffed and growled.

  I don't speak wolf, but I guessed he was telling me we weren't alone. I didn't see the vampire out there taking a sunbath, so I expected we had company of a different sort. I spun the eye in the sky spell, then closed my eyes and pushed it up over our heads about twenty feet.

  Up ahead, there was a clearing in the junk piles and a low concrete building squatting in the middle of it. It had a two-tone paint scheme at one time, light blue on the bottom and white on top, but now the building was mostly the color of graffiti. They were juice tags-I recognized some of the patterns from the factory site.

  Two bangers were out in front of the building with submachine guns. Two more were lying on the flat roof with AKs. I spun the eye three hundred and sixty degrees and then circled it in a perimeter around the clearing. I spotted three more covering from the junk piles with open lines of sight to the building and the clearing around it.

  Even in Watts, armed thugs don't hang out in junkyards at dawn just in case someone shows up for them to shoot at. They were waiting for me. Even if I hadn't known whose turf I was on, the tags and colors would have told me they belonged to Papa Danwe. That fit-Fred knew he had to have protection, and who else could he turn to?

  The real question was what I should do about it. I could probably take them all out before they knew I was there, and I could probably do it without killing anyone. On the other hand, cooling things out with Terrence was about the only productive thing I'd really accomplished since this whole thing came down. I didn't really want to fuck it up by shooting in the dark.

  "Hang back, Moonie," I said. "I'm going to try to talk these guys out of getting hurt."

  I thumbed off the shotgun's safety, dropped it to my side and walked out into the clearing.

  It turned out the bangers weren't really guarding the Vampire Fred. What they had working was more in the way of an ambush, and I walked right into it. They let me get about ten feet into the clearing and then they opened fire.

  As soon as I saw the two out front raise their submachine guns, I triggered the defensive shield in the gold crucifix I wear around my neck. An invisible, spherical barrier winked into existence around me. Bullets rattled against the shield like hail against a storm window, and the shield spat raw blue energy like electrical discharges as it vaporized them.

  The shield doesn't make me bulletproof forever, because I can't draw that much juice from a spell talisman. It gives me about ten seconds, and that's usually more than enough time to deal with a guy who's decided to take a shot at me. Unfortunately, it's not enough time to deal with half a dozen attackers or more.

  I squeezed the shotgun to give them something to think about, mostly because it was faster than spinning a spell, then I turned around and ran back the way I'd come. Bullets rained against the shield and kicked up dirt around my feet, and it sounded like someone had lit the fuse on every firecracker in Chinatown.

  I got back around to the other side of the junk pile and Moon Dog was nowhere to be seen. That was just as well-a wolf is out of place in a gunfight. I crouched behind an old refrigerator, leaning my back into it and trying not to flinch as a hailstorm of bullets tore into the junk pile behind me. I was considering my best course of action when the first ball of liquid fire exploded above my head and splashed down on me like napalm.

  The spell caught too much of my cover or I'd have been dead. It engulfed the refrigerator and the rear half of an old pickup camper that jutted out from the junk pile to my left. Burning droplets spattered against the back of my head and neck and sprayed across my left shoulder and arm. My jacket lit up and I was on fire.

  As quickly as my mind registered that I was under magical attack, the spell talisman on my left ring finger activated another shield that was the antimagic analog of the one that saved me from the gunfire. It flared up around me just in time to catch the second, more carefully targeted spell that poured fire down on me in cascading sheets.

  I moved. I ran back down the path I'd followed to the clearing, bent low and burning as I went. I took the first fork to the left and kept going until I had another junk pile between me and the clearing. Then I dropped the shotgun, stripped off my jacket and spun a spell to put out the fire that was still nibbling hungrily at my exposed skin.

  "God is a scientist, not a magician," I said, and juice coursed through my body. It attacked the fire and killed any other hostile magic that might have been affecting me. As soon as I stopped burning, I used some juice to block the pain and spun my wallflower spell. Then I retrieved the Mossberg, hunkered down and threw up the eye in the sky again.

  The two bangers on the roof were still there, their AKs panning back and forth across the clearing. The others had left cover and were fanned out, moving in a ragged skirmish line in my direction. There were a lot more of them than the seven I'd originally spotted. I counted at least a dozen. Most of them had guns, but a few were obviously flowing juice, preparing combat spells.

  When they reached the edge of the clearing, the thugs split into two groups, one moving down the path I'd taken, the other a path that would bring them up along my flank. They obviously had a pretty good idea of where I was-there just weren't that many places I could have gone. I was sure they wouldn't be able to see through my wallflower, but with automatic weapons and explosive spells, they wouldn't have to.

  I let them come. One group came around the right side of my junk pile, and the other came around the left. When they were all more or less where I needed them to be, I dropped the eye and let the Mossberg slip to the ground. I drew in a breath, reached out and sucked down all the juice I could handle, taking it in until it felt like I was burning again.

  "To every action there is an equal and opposite reaction," I said. Sometimes you have to quote the rulebook to produce the most fundamental physical effects.

  The spell was essentially the same magic that was in the repulsion talisman I'd used at the Cannibal Club-the one that had turned Fred around and thrown him into the flower shop. This time, though, I spun the repulsion field into a vertical plane, like a wall about ten feet high and thirty feet long. I positioned this wall of repulsive force so that it neatly bisected the junk pile th
e bangers were flanking.

  When the sheet of arcane energy snapped into place, the thousands of pounds of twisted, rusting metal to either side of it had to move. There was the hellish sound of a suspension bridge collapsing in an earthquake as the junk pile parted like the Red Sea, and the paths to either side of it were buried in a crashing avalanche of wreckage and debris.

  I picked up the shotgun, pumped a shell into the chamber and dropped the wallflower, then I walked toward the clearing along the new path that had been cleared through the middle of the junk pile. There were screams and moans from buried survivors, but I tried not to hear them.

  I wasn't sure if the gangbangers with the AKs had seen enough or if they would open fire, so I spun up another defensive shield. I needn't have bothered, because Moon Dog had seized on these new developments as an opportunity to get involved in the fight.

  I couldn't see much through the enormous dust cloud that had enveloped the area, but I heard a snarl and a choked scream when the werewolf appeared on the roof. One of the thugs managed to crawl over the edge, drop to the ground and scramble away while Moonie was tearing the other one's throat out.

  When I got to the edge of the clearing, the dust cleared well enough for me to see through the haze to the other side. Another dozen or so thugs had left cover and moved into position on either side of the clearing. I noticed they got well clear of the junk piles, but I didn't think I could handle enough juice to spin the spell again anyway.

  The door of the low building opened and Terrence Cole stepped out. He raised his left hand and spread the fingers wide, like a starfish on the move. His other hand was gripping an M-16 with a grenade launcher slung under the barrel.

  "Enough," he said, and his voice was deep and smooth. "Let's cool this shit out before any more brothers get themselves killed."

  I saw Moon Dog creeping to the edge of the building above him, but I gave my head a little shake and he backed off.

  "I thought we already cooled this shit out, Terrence. In case I wasn't specific enough, that means you and your fucking gangbangers don't go shock and awe on me."

  "I know what you came here to do. I'm just here to tell you it's not going to happen. Not here, not today."

  "You're protecting that cocksucker?"

  Terrence shrugged. "It is what it is, Domino. It comes down from Papa Danwe, and I do what I'm supposed to do. This here's a line I can't cross, even if I wanted to."

  "Fuck your line, Terrence. I came to talk and you tried to dust me."

  Terrence shook his head. "That was righteous, Domino, if a bit excessive. This is my ground. You come up in here heavy. I got a right to do it that way."

  "Yeah, maybe, and now you have a dozen gangbangers you have to dig out. Some of them might even be alive."

  Terrence shrugged. "You know I didn't see it going that way. It was a nice trick with that repulsion spell. You must have had to flow a lot of juice, though, must have been hard to pull it on my turf. You can't be feeling too good right now."

  Terrence was right-my vampire-hunting expedition was over. I'd flowed too much juice and I was just about done, not to mention I'd almost had an arm cooked. I probably had enough left if it was just the thugs, but there was no way I could handle Terrence at the same time. I didn't really know what he could do, but he had the same job description as me so I could make a close enough guess. I also liked him for the napalm spell that almost cooked me.

  The clincher, though, was that Terrence was also right about the political situation. The ambush had been excessive, but warranted, even considering our little agreement. I'd come onto another outfit's territory with the idea of killing somebody under their protection. It didn't really matter that I had a legitimate beef with the vampire.

  As it stood, I was probably okay, too. They'd attacked me without warning and I'd defended myself. I probably hadn't gone too far to restore the fucking peace with Terrence-what there was of it. But now that I'd been given the opportunity to walk away, I'd have to take it.

  "I'm going to have to stake him, Terrence."

  "I understand that. It just can't happen here."

  I let him think I was mulling it over and then nodded. "I guess I can see that."

  "We can still hold it together, Domino. Like I told you before, some of this shit's already in motion, ain't nothing I can do about it. But it doesn't have to go any further than that. Doesn't have to be any war."

  "Let's keep it that way. You take care of your business and I'll take care of mine."

  "Always, Domino," he said, and he smiled a wide smile.

  I turned around and walked away. When I reached the edge of the clearing I stopped and turned back halfway. I gestured at the wreckage.

  "Sorry about your boys, Terrence. I hope everyone's okay." I tried to make my smile as wide as his.

  On the way back to Santa Monica, my juice buzz warred with the adrenaline crash. My vision was almost painfully sharp and the wind whipping through the open car roared in my ears like storm surge. My skin felt tight and itched, and I could feel my hair growing. At the same time, the burn I'd felt when I cast the repulsion spell had softened to a warm, euphoric afterglow that was making me wet. In short, I was fucked up.

  Most of the time, flowing juice doesn't have that kind of effect. I might get a pleasant tingle, just enough to look forward to the next time, but I'd flowed too much at the junkyard. When Rashan had brought me into the outfit, he'd warned me that juice can be addictive. I'd seen enough crack-heads and junkies in the neighborhood to take him seriously, and I always tried to pull my juice in small doses. Most of the everyday spells I used-like the traffic and parking spells-were just like that. A heroin addict would call them bumps or taps.

  For larger spells, I had my little rituals, and I had Mr. Clean to take some of the juice. The spell talismans were handy, too. Not only did they allow me to trigger an effect more quickly, but I was also able to charge them with a little juice at a time.

  At the junkyard, I'd been rushing, hard. I'd flowed enough juice to toss around a couple tons of scrap metal like LEGOs. The gangbangers had been trying to kill me and I did what I had to do. Some of them were dead-probably all of them-but I wasn't planning to stop by their funerals or anything. Bad guys die. Someday I'd be on the wrong end. And goddamn that juice had felt good. Even the burn had been a good pain; the kind of pain you get from doing something your body needs but doesn't like.

  I threw my head back and let the wind thunder over my face, and laughed. Outside of the bosses, there probably weren't five gangsters in L.A. who could have handled that much juice. Terrence probably couldn't. Fuck him-he was pretty good, but I doubted he could've moved that pile.

  "I am a fucking monster!" I yelled, and laughed again.

  Moon Dog whined and stared at me with those fucked-up yellow eyes. He'd been lying on the passenger seat with his muzzle tucked between his paws all the way from the salvage yard.

  I looked over at him. "What? Look, Moonie, you don't got to worry about those fucking guys. I'll set you up, you can lay low for a few days if you want, but no one's going to fuck with you. Not after that, they ain't gonna fuck with you." What I meant was they wouldn't fuck with me.

  Moon Dog just whined again and dropped his nose to his paws.

  When we got back to the pier, I waited outside the building while Moonie changed back. When he came outside, he was trying to wipe away the blood matted in his beard with a dirty rag. For whatever reason, I hadn't even noticed the blood on the werewolf's muzzle.

  I pulled out my roll and peeled off five bills. "Moonie, thanks for helping me out back there. You didn't have to get involved, and I want you to know I appreciate it." Moon Dog grimaced and took the money like it was a job application.

  "That was fucked up, Domino."

  "Fuck those guys, Moonie. I went out to talk and they tried to put me in the ground."

  Moon Dog didn't seem to want to look at me. He was quiet for a minute. "I did a lot of fucked-up shit in t
he Nam," he said finally. "Had to, or thought I did. I didn't have to like it, though. Thing is, some guys did." He looked at me then-more like squinted at me.

  "Jesus, Moonie, I didn't like it," I said, trying it out. It didn't sit quite right.

  Moon Dog nodded. "That's good, babe. Most of those guys never made it home. They just kept going back, one tour after another, until they finally got to stay there. Some of them came back when the government made them, but their minds are still in the bush. Always will be."

  "And you, Moonie?" Without the juice buzz, it probably would have seemed like a rude question.

  Moonie chuckled. "I guess I made it out of the bush but never quite made it home. That's all right. I got no complaints."

  "Well, me, either. I guess I won't turn into some psychotic baby-killer just because I decided not to let a few gangbangers shoot me."

  Moon Dog flinched at the term "baby-killer," but he seemed to have put in enough words for one day. He just nodded, told me to be careful and wheeled himself back into his hole. The whole experience hadn't been too good for him. His PTSD was probably acting up.

  By the time I got home, the buzz was gone and my mood was foul. I slammed the door, slammed myself onto the couch and stared at the peach-colored wall. Then I got up and went to the kitchen, grabbed a beer and slammed the refrigerator door. When I got back to the living room, Honey was hovering there.

  "Bad day?" she piped. Her cheerfulness was annoying. I dropped back on the couch and drank my beer.

  "What happened?" Honey landed on the coffee table and looked at me, concerned.

  "Nothing much," I said, and glowered.