by Jeff Klima
From the living room, the action is centered on the musclehead harassing the two boys.
“Quit it,” one of the boys yelps, and the sharp crack of fabric against skin emanates through the wall. “Owww, Carlos,” the boy whines. If I had to guess, I’d say Carlos took his shirt off and whipped the boy.
“C’mon already,” I whisper, the sweat on my brow now dripping down, making my eyeballs sting. The rifle is shaking harder now, my hands tensed around the grips, fatiguing. I am ready to head out into the living room and square it up myself. Just go for Carlos first. Conserve bullets and pray the other two aren’t carrying. I’ve got the element of surprise.
“I was going to take you with me to Tito’s!” Carlos chides the boys. “Tengo hambre!”
“I’ll go,” both of the young ones say, suddenly animated.
“Ha, no Tito’s for you now, disappointing fuckers. You stay—awake this time. Pay for my lunch and I might bring you back a taco. To share.”
A Velcro wallet is ripped open. One of the boys mumbles something.
“No sauce,” Carlos snaps. “Be thankful if you get a fucking thing, passing out on watch. Fucking amateur hour.”
“Will you tell Coco?” one of the boys asks, fearful, pleading.
“I was a recruit once too.” Carlos laughs. “Fuck no, I won’t tell Coco—you’d be dead just like that—if he found you, he wouldn’t even wake you. Just stab, stab and we’d be burning bloody couches in the backyard.”
“Thanks, Carlos,” the boy says, cowed.
“Don’t fuckin’ thank me, just prove to me that you are worthy of S.L. colors. Shit is serious. I’ll be back.”
The metal door opens and slams again. Carlos whistles his way out to the gate, but I stay where I am, tense. The boys are wide awake now, making my exit a difficult one still.
“You were supposed to stay awake,” one boy scolds the other.
“Chupa mi pito,” the other retorts. They stay on the couches.
“I gotta piss but I’m too fucking lazy to get up,” one of them says after a moment. The other laughs in agreement.
I lower the gun but don’t lessen my grip on it. If I’m going to leave, the time is now. Fuck it, the symbol on the wall will inform Coco exactly who was here anyhow. And these boys, their death warrant is already signed. I can’t save them now. I place the AK-47 quietly atop the other guns and heft the duffel. My pistol in my other hand, I step into the living room, catching them by surprise. My hood is up, pulled low across my forehead and the gun is pointed between them.
“What the—” the one farther from me starts to ask, but the gun shifts toward him and he stops, afraid. Both are too shocked to move.
“Don’t move,” I command anyhow. “Listen to me. Coco is going to kill you for this. There’s nothing you can do about it now. I suggest you wait until I am gone and then you run. Save your own lives. Steal a car, get out of town. But don’t stay here.” I set the duffel down to reach into the pocket of my hoodie and retrieve the two bundles of hundred-dollar bills. I throw them on the floor between the couches. “That will get you somewhere,” I say. “So take it.” Their eyes widen at the cash.
I know it isn’t going to happen—they won’t leave. They’re too stupid. Maybe they will even offer Coco his own money back. Their best bet will be that the gangster will let one of them live long enough to positively identify me, but he will die soon after. Cautiously picking up the duffel, I back toward the kitchen, and an anger pokes through the fear on the face of one of them. The other still looks drunk and afraid.
“Run,” I warn once more and then take my own advice. Sprinting through the kitchen and out the back. I vault down the steps and not hearing footsteps behind me, I pray that they aren’t foolish enough to try me. Swinging for momentum, I heft the guns over the wall and leap onto the barbecue grill. I make it over the other side, crashing down onto the trashcan hard before tumbling down to the dusty overgrowth breaking through the alley concrete. Not taking the extra second to brush the dirt from my face and hands, I retrieve the duffel and run like hell in the direction of my car.
I toss the duffel, the gold Desert Eagle, and my pistol in the trunk. I drive, determined, back toward Burbank. Coco’s medallion still hangs around my neck. I pull it off and set it on the seat. It’s perfect. Better than perfect really, and I know just what to do with it. The .50 caliber too. They’ll be a package deal, I decide. Now to get a new phone and some wrapping paper.
“What happened to Crozier?” Mikey asks when I dial him up on my new smartphone, a wrapped package now seated beside me in the Charger—identical colors to which he’d presented me Holly’s skull. My gift is its own kind of death.
“I’m gonna need a new plus one,” I say.
“How’d it happen?” he asks after a full dramatic pause. I can imagine him raging on the other side of the phone.
“You know what happens when people don’t put their windows all the way down? It’s like a guillotine in car crashes.”
“Congratulations to you on getting your revenge, then,” he says, understandably irritated.
“I haven’t gotten my revenge, not yet,” I promise Mikey.
“You think killing Crozier changes anything between us? It won’t. I have others who can fill his shoes. You’re still very much on my hook.”
“I didn’t call to talk your human resources strategy. I called because I made a decision: I’ll go along with your plan.”
“That’s a smart business decision,” Mikey agrees.
“And since every business deal deserves a gift, I thought I’d bring you one.”
“I’m not really in the mood for gifts right now, Tom. If it’s Crozier’s skull, you keep it. You’ve earned it.”
“No, I’m not down to your level of depravity yet. I think you’ll appreciate it though.”
“You’re coming over on Tuesday, give it to me then.”
“I don’t think it can wait. C’mon, where are you? You’re not scared of me, are you?”
“Of course I’m scared of you, Tom. You’re clearly kind of a freaky dude. You want to meet me? Fine. You come to my turf then. I’m at my office on the Fox lot. Tell the guard at the gate you have a meeting with me. And don’t get too clever for your own good. We had some good times, you and me, don’t forget those because of this recent unpleasantness.”
“Oh, I won’t,” I promise him. “Like I said, I think you’re gonna like it.”
Driving onto the movie studio lot is yet another reminder that Hollywood is a veneer—entertainment as a business. Instead of movie stars, glitz, and glamour, I get offices and a big drab soundstage. At least it’s clean, not like the actual streets of Hollywood. I find Mikey’s office on the map and park outside, next to an empty space that reads Reserved for Tom Sawyer.
Mikey’s office is an extension of his home decorating. Red and black, grim imagery masquerading as wall decor and a fearsome gargoyle statue mounted at face height just inside the door.
At the front desk, an attractive Middle Eastern–looking woman reads the same copy of Us Weekly Don Tart had on his coffee table. She puts it down to greet me. “He’s in his office, Tom,” she says with her sultry and surprising proper English accent, nodding to a door past the desk. I move through the office, sinking oh so slightly into the plush carpeting beneath me as I go, and shift the box in my hands to open the door, marveling at the opulence of the place. No expenses spared in Mikey Echo’s world—ever.
Mikey is seated atop his desk, holding a pistol, a small, snubbed thing, like a woman might carry in her purse. He grins sheepishly when he sees the wrapped package. “Beware Greeks bearing gifts, right?”
“I’m not Greek,” I say, nonplussed.
Mikey hops from the desk and leaves the pistol behind. Considering that it’s there, I am tempted to make a move for it. But I have bigger plans in play. I extend the box to him and he takes it excitedly. “Is it fragile?”
“Not at all,” I say. “Go ahead and shak
e the hell out of it.”
“It’s not a bomb, is it?”
“I wish it were,” I tell him and settle onto a couch in the room. It’s soft leather and I sink down comfortably.
Mikey retreats to his chair behind the desk and sets the gift in front of him, cautiously, still afraid he might damage it. He’s about to tear into it, and then looks up. “Where are my manners? Can I get you a beverage?” He gestures to a long, narrow bar of expensive crystal decanters containing assorted spirits. “There are Sprites in the fridge.”
“I’m good. Open your gift.”
“What about parking? Did you get a close spot?”
“Right next to Tom Sawyer.”
“Ha,” he says, “that’s Steven Spielberg’s. He had to start using a pseudonym because people kept leaving scripts on his windshield.”
“Open your present,” I remind him.
“Yeah, right,” he says, eyeing it. And then I realize he’s nervous to do so.
“I said you would like it. It was tough because what do you get the guy who has everything—including a gargoyle.”
“How about that gargoyle, huh? I got it to mount outside the building, but it’s much more terrifying where it is. You know, it came from the set of—”
“Open it. I’ve got stuff to do today,” I interrupt.
“Okay, okay,” he says. “Sheesh.” Gently removing the bow, he begins to carefully loosen the paper from the tape.
“The cake will get moldy if you continue at that speed,” I warn him. Finally, he tears into it and pulls the lid from the box.
“Holy shit!” Mikey exclaims when he sees what’s inside. He’s like a kid on Christmas. “Is this for real?” He lifts the clunky gold eagle medallion and equally gold .50 caliber pistol from the box at the same time, holding them up in the light. “They’re so heavy,” he says.
“I see you’ve already got a gun, so if you want I can take it back,” I offer, sarcastic.
“Don’t you fucking dare. This is incredible!” Mikey sets the gun down to put on the eagle necklace. As expected, it looks gaudy as fuck. Quickly, he picks up the gun again, admiring it. “I love it. I never knew I wanted anything like this until just this moment.” Proud, he nods his head. “Tom, I underestimated you. This is the nicest thing anyone has ever given me.”
“You’ve earned it.” I shrug.
“Sylvie,” he yells to his assistant through the door. She comes in quickly. “Look what Tom got me!”
“Oh my God. Smashing, Mr. Echo. We’ve got to have a photo. Let me get my mobile.” She returns with her phone.
“Wait, take it in front of the Goya,” Mikey commands and moves over to a picture on his wall of a woman and child, the picture’s subjects terrified of a ghostly apparition. Sylvie obliges him, rolling her eyes. “Say cheese,” she commands.
“Balla!” he yells and takes a fantastic action shot, pointing the gun at the camera, menacing, while holding up the medallion. It’s more than I could hope for.
“Send me that photo,” I ask of Sylvie, not needing to feign delight at the circumstances. It is easier than I hoped it would be.
“Absolutely,” she promises. “I have your phone number at the desk. I’ll send it now.” She leaves the inner office to do just that.
“Where did you get this, Tom? From a crime scene?”
“Something like that,” I say. “It definitely looks good on you.” Inside my pocket I feel my phone vibrate as the picture arrives.
Chapter 26
My text from Coco comes right after I walk in the apartment door. I wonder what he can possibly threaten me with, he’s already promised me my death. Opening my messages, I see he’s sent a picture. I click on it and find an image of the two boys, his guards, the stacks of money clenched between their teeth and wretched scorched holes where their eyes used to be. I can practically smell the cooked flesh from the disturbing sight through my phone. Whether they are dead or not, I can’t tell. “They did not use their eyes and so they lost them,” the message with the picture reads. A second text message arrives. It says, simply: “You did not use your head.”
I know I told the boys to run, but a chill runs through me regardless.
I wait a moment before I respond, checking the fridge for possible dinner options. It would be nice to actually make something for Ivy for a change, considering I’m home first. She’s a big believer in buying everything that will fit in the cart when she goes to the store, so picking through the assortment of foods in various states of decomposition is tricky. Her fridge habits are just as messy as the rest of her life. Fuck it. I close the fridge. We’re going out. Date night. Besides, it might well be our last.
Enough of a buffer has passed without any further messages from Coco, so I text back, “Mikey Echo sends his regards.” I am not the texting sort and so the message takes time and this fucking autocorrect function keeps changing “Mikey” to “microwave,” which would defeat the purpose of my plan. Finally, I’m able to spell everything correctly and hit send. A thrill pulses through me, wondering if this will all work. Almost immediately I get a text back, a single question mark.
Now for the sell. I send Coco the pic of Mikey wearing Coco’s necklace and holding his gun. Without context, Mikey looks almost menacing in the photo.
“The puppet master,” I type. “If you want your shit back, bring everyone you’ve got. Tomorrow. 7:05 p.m. 100 N. Carolwood Dr. Holmby Hills. I’ll leave the gate open for you.”
“What’s in it for you?” he types back.
“Forget you ever knew me.”
“If you’re there, you die like the rest,” Coco texts. “Otherwise, stay out of my way going forward and I’ll forget we ever had a beef.”
“Fair enough,” I send back. It really is the best deal I could hope for, but it does give me a small window in which to operate. And no room for failure.
Ivy doesn’t want a fancy dinner. “Too gloomy,” she protests, even though I remind her that gloom might be in order considering the potential for everything to go completely ass up tomorrow. Finally we settle on Pink’s, a little hot-dog place down in Hollywood on La Brea.
“I want to wander,” she says. “But I also want to eat.”
Getting our dogs, we head south down to Melrose on foot. Her dog is completely overstuffed, of course, and begins falling apart as soon as she bites in. “Goddamn, that’s good,” she says, smiling with her mouth full and her face a mess of mustard, ketchup, and relish. I offer her a napkin, but she wants no part of it. “Eating for two now,” she says, and uses her finger like a push broom to slick the runoff into her smacking lips.
“You already eat for two. This is more like two-and-a-half.” I shrug and pocket the napkin.
Wandering past the head shops, bodegas, and hipster boutiques, we hold one another’s free hand and look up at the crescent moon together. “We’ve been through a lot, you and me,” Ivy says.
“That feels like a loaded statement,” I say, anticipating some larger point.
“Aww, I thought I was being casual.” She laughs.
“You have the subtlety of a car bomb,” I remind her, smiling a little.
“Well, you have the niceness of a . . . car bomb,” she declares right back, proud of herself.
“I can accept that.” I nod. “So what’s the thought that you’ve got rolling around in there, marblehead?”
“I was just gonna say I can’t imagine being without you. You and me, we’re partners in crime.”
“And?”
“And I want to be there with you tomorrow. If you go down, I want to be right there, going down too.”
“I see,” I say evenly. There’s a trashcan beside me, so I set my uneaten dog, still wrapped in foil, down atop the lid. Hopefully some homeless person with a bigger appetite than I have will get a meal out of it. “You know, you’re the only person in this world who I care about, right?”
“I’m practically the only person you know, so that’s only sort of the co
mpliment you intend it to be,” she points out. “But thank you, sweetie.” She leans in to kiss me, mustard still staining the lines in her lips—and now staining my lips too.
“That’s why I can’t have you there,” I say, finishing my thought. “If I die, so what. If we both die, so what. But if you died and I lived . . .”
“So what, right? You get another tramp, another fucked-up chick to give you head in the Target parking lot.”
“I’ve got to learn to be nicer to you,” I admit. “You’re starting to anticipate mean comments even when they aren’t coming. You’re too good a person to be like me.”
“What were you really going to say then?” she asks, still not quite believing.
“I was going to say, if you died and I lived, there’d be no one I loved left alive. And that’s too bleak a thought, even for me.”
“You love me?” she asks, squinting, her mouth still stained. “Really?”
“Whatever this is, this feeling I have for you . . . I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately. I’ve never felt it before—about anything, except you. So what else could it be?”
“Lust.” She laughs and it turns into a burp. “Welp, killed the romance there.” She smiles, knowing she did nothing of the kind.
We stop in front of a tattoo parlor. “Want me to get ‘Ivy’ tattooed on my heart or something?” I ask. “Will that prove it to you?”
She smiles. “That reminds me of a joke. Wanna hear it?”