by Daniel Jeudy
The Old Man smiled at him in a perverted way.
“Relax, Edward. You’re going to like this … Meagan will no longer be available to assist anyone in Filii Reprobi until it has been cleared with me beforehand. She explained how she helped you in other areas, so correction is necessary to dissuade the others from being foolish. Do you agree, Meagan?”
“Yes, I most certainly do,” she answered, licking her lips in an evocative manner while regarding Edward with expanded eyes. The woman was a low-down Judas betraying bitch, and he intended to make her pay for this at some point.
“Excellent,” the Old Man replied. “Your predicament is more contentious, considering all the unrest you have caused.”
Edward regarded him without awe, doing his utmost to remain subdued while he waited to learn what the stupid old fart had to say. Perhaps he was going to demand that he walk away from Filii Reprobi’s posturing bullshit. Still, the bastard’s tailor-made suit wouldn’t be good for anything other than cleaning rags if he didn’t tell Edward what he needed to hear.
“I appreciate your suggestion,” the Old Man revealed through a smile. “It’s well-considered and shows me you do indeed use foresight when it suits. But unfortunately, in this instance, it has arrived a couple of bodies too late.”
Edward went to say, “I don’t think so,” when something tightened around his elbow, pinning his arms to the side of his body. He looked down to see a plastic cable tie and twisted in his chair to identify whoever had snuck upon him like a cat, only to find they were positioned out of sight. Panic engulfed him as he prepared to play the ace up his sleeve.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing here, Clive!” he roared. “You best be thinking this through because I have an insurance policy locked away. If anything ever happens to me, the whole thing is going to come down on your fucking head. Filii Reprobi will be finished. You’re an old fool to think I wouldn’t prepare for a day like this.”
The Old Man was genuinely enjoying himself. Whatever fondness he once had for the cretin was gone. He thought about Susan Rodriguez, confident she would never disappoint him in such a pathetic manner as he placed Edward’s memory drive onto his desk.
“You must be referring to this little piece here, I presume?” he replied coldly, smiling as Edward’s features became feral, unable to comprehend what was rapidly unfolding.
“I had my good friend behind you reclaim it from your safety deposit box this morning, you poor misguided idiot … As I said, you really can’t beat foresight.”
“I’ve got another one of those!” Edward screamed.
The Old Man tutted while slowly shaking his head as Ghost stepped into view.
“No, you don’t,” Ghost countered sardonically. “There are still bits of information on your computer in Palmdale, but I’ll be sure to wipe them when I return your body.”
A terrible realization washed over Edward’s face as he transitioned from defiant to panicked in the blink of an eye, looking from the Old Man to Ghost and then back to Meagan.
“Stop!” he screeched, “I only wanted to bring her back!”
Meagan Banks glared at the pitiful sobbing mess beside her, sickened by the notion she once found him so incredibly alluring. He was no different to the loser assholes whose innards she had woven together at the Los Padres cabin all those years ago.
None of them reacted to Edward’s cries. The silence articulated what everybody was thinking better than any words. The Old Man stared impassively at Edward’s weeping face, listening while he bounced from one justification to the next, becoming more frantic by the second. They were impervious to his excuses, slightly fascinated perhaps, but unmoved just the same.
Edward heaved himself onto the floor in a final attempt to break free, flopping about like a fish out of water. Ghost crouched down and removed the pistol from Edward’s holster. The familiar half-smile returned to his lips.
“We should get this over with before he bruises,” Ghost encouraged.
The Old Man’s gray eyes were hazed in thought.
“It won’t matter once they find what’s waiting for them at Palmdale,” he assured with a chuckle.
Edward’s squealing continued, high pitched and despairing.
The Old Man slid a syringe of dirty liquid heroin across his desk.
“It’s time for you to serve your penance, Meagan,” he said.
Ghost held Edward steady, turning his head away from the ugly sound of his screaming while Meagan prepared for action, humming a nursery rhyme like Edward enjoyed doing as she selected a vein. She could tell he was using every ounce of his strength to break the ties, but Ghost held him tighter than a vice. Meagan winked at Edward before the needle pierced his skin, watching as he opened his mouth and howled like a dog. His hands clawed hatefully at the air, and his legs kicked out wildly in front of him.
Meagan giggled as Edward’s face went from bright red to a darker shade of purple. Spit foamed at the corner of his thin blue lips, and his eyes contained the accurate measure of his distress. She watched his tongue double in size while he twitched and gagged, suffocating on the poison flowing through his system, entirely powerless for the first time in his life. Edward’s heels drummed and scraped against the concrete as Meagan stared into his face with contempt. A soggy breath cackled up his throat and his eyes glazed over in death. His lifeless expression gaped up at the ceiling before piss saturated his jeans to form a rusty puddle on the concrete.
The Old Man hadn’t bothered moving out from behind his desk, barely watching as the heroin kicked in and strangled the life out of the prick. In truth, he would have preferred to kill the shit like the vagrants Edward kept at the back of his property. When the Old Man strolled around to where Meagan and Ghost were stooped, he gazed down on Edward’s listless form like it was an object of mild interest inside a shop window. “And to think I had such high expectations for him,” he said, lighting a cigar. “The main weakness in the boy’s character was the way he believed himself to be indispensable. I suggest you take a close inspection of what’s in front of you, Meagan. A really close inspection.”
Meagan looked up at the Old Man like a child who’d received a good ass whooping from her daddy and now anticipated his restoring love.
“I understand,” she replied, fluttering her lashes expectantly.
The Old Man’s eyes implied Meagan was in for a busy night. “And it would also be in your interests to forget all about my friend,” he said, pointing his cigar at Ghost. “Because if you don’t, you’ll be begging to die like Edward.”
Meagan slipped her tongue across her lips again, smiling when the Old Man’s eyes swept over her curvy body and flawless legs. She parted her thighs, revealing a freshly shaved pussy as Ghost hoisted Edward’s corpse over his shoulder and trudged out of the room.
Fifty-Three
Addison’s brain felt like someone had dipped it in a deep-fry cooker. They’d found nothing at Laguna Beach to support the theory that Filii Reprobi had murdered Frank Rivers. It seemed a clear-cut case of suicide. The examiner determined Rivers had swallowed a Glock G29 at the family dining table. There was no sign of coercion and no explanation left as to why he’d blown his brains out.
When they attempted to retrieve Frank’s possessions, his wife refused to hand anything over without a warrant. Serena Rivers had clammed up after declaring that she knew nothing about Filii Reprobi, trying hard to present herself as a heartbroken wife.
Addison refilled his glass with whiskey before leaning back on the couch and closing his eyes. He thought of his recent encounter with Coniglio at the Woodcat Café, recalling the soft touch of her skin when their hands brushed. Addison appreciated how she always remained upbeat, even when a dead body lay in front of her, and the gagging trace of human shit filled the space. Mostly, he just missed the counter perspective of a woman. So, when the investigation concluded, he intended to ask her out for a meal.
He listened to the ESPN commentary panel discussi
ng whether Tom Brady received too much latitude in games. Addison rested his glass on the table and let his mind wander, remembering how Nate recognized Brady’s incomparable greatness the first time he watched him play. Addison felt a little disappointed that the boy hadn’t answered his call earlier, but he was accustomed to things being this way. His loneliness had been around so long; he’d gotten used to the smell. Addison swallowed a mouthful of liquor and shut his eyes again, hoping the warm glow might draw him toward sleep. The humming vibration of his Samsung dragged him back to the present. He saw the caller ID was blocked and presumed it was someone from headquarters.
“Mowbray,” he answered wearily.
“Hello, Detective Mowbray.”
The hostile tone sent ice shards down the center of his back.
“Who the fuck is this?” Addison demanded.
“Who I am is not important. What I’m calling about, on the other hand—”
“How did you get this number, asshole?”
A conceited chuckle made Addison want to punch the caller in their face.
“You will be handed a gift before morning, detective. When the disease you are presently looking for is served up on a silver plate. I suggest you accept our benevolence with gratitude, then get on with the business of living your life. If you don’t heed my advice, you’ll have no one to blame for the resulting consequences other than yourself.”
Addison’s stomach lurched as his heart thumped against his rib cage.
“Filii Reprobi,” he replied in a slow dragging tone.
“It’s best if you forget that name.”
“Is that right?” Addison countered. “I’m not the forgetful kind.”
Another snicker, more irritating than the first.
“Your son, Nate, leaves for school at 8:05 every morning. The bus usually picks him up at ten past and drops him at Jefferson High about half an hour later. He has basketball practice on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. Nate trains on the outside courts near the road because the seniors get priority as far as the auditorium is concerned. Your kid lives on Bell Avenue with your ex-wife, Michelle Cawthorne.
“Michelle has recently found herself a new friend named Peter Marshall. Peter is a math teacher at your son’s school, and they are both trying to keep their romance under wraps for the time being. Nate keeps a picture of you in uniform beside a Dallas Cowboys lamp, and his room is a bit messy. A boy named Charlie Tomlinson is Nate’s best pal; they ride the streets together every afternoon. As you know, children go missing every day, so be sensible, and your son will get to reach his undoubted potential. I think he has a decent chance at earning a college scholarship if he continues working on his jump shot.
“There’s a package at your backdoor. Have a good look at what’s inside; it should help to seal our arrangement. Your badge can’t save you in this situation. You need to trust me on that. And if you tell anyone about this call, I will withdraw my offer, and your boy will get carved up like a slab of beef—you’ll never see him alive again.”
When the call was abruptly ended, Addison sat in shocked silence. Rage blazed his senses as he jumped to his feet and rushed to the back of the house, fumbling with the old brass handle before swinging the door open with a frantic heave. Someone had placed a manila envelope on the porch; a big smiley face in black marker mocked his despair. Addison scooped up the package, tearing the seal to discover whatever was inside. Nate and his ex-wife’s color photo captured them walking down their drive toward Michelle’s yellow SUV, laughing obliviously while a killer stalked them from across the street.
Addison slammed the door shut and ran to the living room to get his phone, hitting Michelle’s home number and praying to every known god that she answered his call. When she responded in her usual dispassionate tone, pure relief engulfed him.
“Howdy, Michelle, how are you doing?” he asked, sensing the uneasiness in her silence. It would have been well over a year since he’d last inquired about her general disposition.
“I’m fine, Addison. Why do you ask? Is everything all right?”
Like all people, the woman had her faults, but a chump she was not.
“Yeah, things are good. I’m just trying to make small talk is all.”
“Small talk,” she cried. “It’s a bit late for that. Nate’s not here right now.”
Addison’s heart jumped into his mouth again. “What, where is he?” he asked much too quickly.
“He’s staying over at his friend Charlie’s place; they’ve got practice tomorrow and wanted to shoot some hoops together tonight. Are you sure everything’s okay, Addison? Because you sound kinda weird.”
Addison thought of the Filii Reprobi threat.
“Yeah, I’m good, it’s just that it’s a Wednesday night, and the boy has school tomorrow. I was hoping I’d get to speak with him. I already called earlier.”
His ex-wife’s extended pause suggested she wasn’t convinced.
“I’ll let him know you asked after him and make sure he gives you a buzz when he gets home from basketball practice tomorrow afternoon. Whatever happened to the whole let-the-boy-learn-from-his-mistakes psychology you used to preach?”
She wasn’t making this easy for him.
“I guess perspectives change when your kid moves to another state. Particularly when it becomes so darn hard to reach him all of a sudden. I’ll expect a call tomorrow, then.”
“Sure thing. Goodnight, Addison.”
“Night,” he replied before staring at the phone like it was poison.
He contemplated making a call to arrange a patrol car to park outside Michelle’s address but was starting to consider Filii Reprobi might be capable of almost anything. Instead, he thought about the various warnings he’d received before arriving at this juncture. The restraint of Harry Bath, and Sarah Parker’s condescension, not to mention the disparaging attitude of Elizabeth Plume or the frustration spoken by Tony Anders.
Addison swallowed the remainder of his whiskey in one gulp, racking his brain for an alternative to break the shackles which Filii Reprobi had just applied to him. He’d been on the verge of sleep ten minutes earlier, but now he was amped like a crack head on a bender. As he examined the photo again, awful images of Nate electrified his thinking.
The terrible dreams he experienced at night faded quickly upon waking in the morning. But this was an entirely different proposition. His worst nightmares were being recounted with opened eyes, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do other than wait for the gift promised by those Filii Reprobi cocksuckers.
Fifty-Four
It had been a slow night at Yerevan, and the handful of customers who came for dinner proved to be a pain in the ass. The recently hired dish-pig never bothered turning up for his shift, and Erik was reading through the Los Angeles Times with a testy attitude.
Narek often wondered why his cousin had chosen this path. He knew most of the boys in the Armenian Power but had never wanted any part of the criminal life. Erik frequently cautioned him about playing Russian roulette with Satan, believing his life was destined to end in a blaze of violence. His cousin was still one tough son of a bitch, and much harder than many of the gangbangers within the community. He just lacked the killer instinct and cold-blooded mindset that was necessary to prosper on the streets.
Some faggot cops from the GND tried to load him up with phony charges a few years back. The fucking douchebags were expecting Erik to panic and rat out Narek’s crew, but his cousin just laughed in their pig faces. He’d kept his trap sealed for over forty-eight hours while the cops stood around waiting for him to bend over. Erik’s loyalty came as no surprise to Narek, though; he was a Bedrosian after all, and Bedrosians were no sellouts.
Erik looked up from the newspaper and slid a plate of dolma across the benchtop.
“Take this home for Anna and the kids,” he said.
“I’m going to the Abovyan tonight, but you may as well leave it out. Bedros will eat the entire fucking plate when h
e gets here, then go looking for more.”
Erik remained locked onto his eyes.
“What?” Narek asked, opening his hands in front of him.
“You should spend more time with your family. All you seem to do lately is sit out the back here in my little kitchen or get yourself rat-assed at Davit’s strip joint.”
Narek experienced a flash of rage. He hated anybody challenging him but knew better than to try standing over his relative. It had never worked when they were kids, and it sure as hell wasn’t going to work inside the man’s fucking restaurant.
One time, Narek got loaded at a family BBQ and said something insulting to Erik’s sister. His cousin let it slide that night before asking Narek to come back to his house the following day. When he walked through the door, Erik proceeded to beat the living shit out of him. They eventually smoothed things over, and Narek remained mindful of how he spoke to bitches when his morally pretentious cousin was in the room.
“It’s work, Erik; I don’t choose my hours. You know that.”
“Fuckin’, please. I hear Bedros and those other chent dogs bragging about what happens at the club each night. Don’t insult me. I’m not an idiot. What you do in your marriage is entirely your business, cousin. But Anna is a good woman, and she has given you two beautiful children. I worry for you, Narek. What would happen to your little family if somebody decided to come after you? Those boys need their father.”
Narek laughed off his concerns.
“Relax, man; nothing is going to happen to me. I’m not some street-level punk who’s throwing up gang signs with a can of spray paint in an attempt to get noticed. People don’t wake up and decide that they will put out a contract on somebody like me. Davit is one of the most feared men in all of Los Angeles, and I’m like a son to him.”
Erik discarded Narek’s reassurance with a wave of his hand.
“You need to pay more attention to history. See what eventually happened to people who live the way you do. They all thought they were indestructible, and nothing could put them down, but their reputations only protected them to a point. There will always be a next-generation asshole lining up to be the kid who finished Narek Avakian. It’s just a never-ending wheel of death, like the snake eating its tail.”