by Rhys Ford
“I’m not going to ask why you looked at the safes.” Dante chuckled when Rook gave him a withering look. “Let’s just say it was to reassure you the motive wasn’t burglary. It could be they didn’t have time. We won’t know anything solid until the morgue comes back with their report.”
“There’s a lot of should haves I’ve got going on in my head.” Vicks shaking him down was only a glancing blow. The detective acted like he knew more, but from what James intimated, Vicks was known to be a dick. “I can’t just sit this one out, Montoya. I’ve got to do something. Help her out somehow. I feel like this shit’s my fault.”
“Did she tell you what Harold did to piss her off?” Dante’s eyes were hooded, their deep honey color nearly sepia in the faint light. “And don’t take this wrong, but could she have played you? Set you up to find him?”
“Maybe? My gut tells me no, but we all know how good my gut’s been about women lately.” He grimaced. “I do like Sadonna. She’s old-school Hollywood, you know? A bit bawdy but snarky. She’s the kind of woman who walks into a private dick’s office, asks him to take her case, then leaves him with nothing but regrets and bittersweet memories. But would she jack me over? I don’t think—”
The sound of something striking the store’s front glass boomed through the shop’s main room, and Rook flinched, curling his arm up over his head. A wave of heat bloomed across the floor, the acrid scent of chemicals or alcohol burning his nose, and before he could blink away the dryness in his eyes from the scorched air, Dante was on him, rolling them both down to the floor.
“What the hell?” The sting of flaming cheap vodka seared Rook’s nose, and he fought to get out from under Dante’s weight. “Let me go! The shop!”
“Stay down!” Dante shouted into his ear as he rolled to the side. “Get out and call 911. I’m going for the extinguishers!”
Another arc of fire followed, a stream of flames lighting up the shadows along the glass cases, but Rook could only catch a glimpse of the bottle before it struck the floor. The carpet burned under the spreading sea of fire, black smoke billowing up to the store’s open ductwork. The front windows crinkled, and another boom shook the shop, slamming Rook’s eardrums with a percussive wave. It was getting harder to see, even hard to breathe as waves of smoke filled the space. Crouched against one of the side cases, Rook reached for Dante, alarmed to find his lover wasn’t there.
“Montoya!” He scrambled through his brain, trying to remember where the fire extinguishers were. “I don’t have my damned phone!” A canister rolled over, striking his foot, and Rook grabbed for it, thinking to toss it back out. “Shit, no. Don’t grab. Cover. Fucking shit.”
A spiral rack of hoodies was the closest thing to a dampening cloth he had. He swaddled the canister with one of the garments, hoping to suppress as much of its exhaust as possible, stamping the cotton over the tear gas grenade. Coughing, Rook staggered to his feet, amazed to find the front windows were still mostly intact save the one by the door. Dante appeared out of the thickening, stinging fog, his arms wrapped around an extinguisher. He’d pulled his shirt up to cover his nose and mouth, his eyes going wide when he spotted Rook.
“Get out!” His shout was muffled but clear enough for Rook to understand him.
“I need to call! Shit, where’s the damned store phone?” Rook covered his mouth with his arm. Battling through the haze, he slid in behind the cash register, grabbing at the landline. They’d gone with a traditional clunky model, keeping with the retro-vintage feel of the shop, and Rook’s fingers shook as he tucked the handset under his chin, tangling the curled-up cord around his wrist.
Hitting the emergency buttons, he ducked down, hoping the air closer to the floor stayed clear. An operator picked up immediately, and Rook rattled off the store’s address first, repeating it again when she asked him to slow down. “Potter’s Field. Someone tossed Molotovs and tear gas into the windows. I’m on a landline, so I’ve got to get off the phone. I’m with Detective Dante Montoya from Central. He’s got an extinguisher, I think.”
“Get out of the building as quickly as you can,” the operator ordered. “If you can get clear, do so now. I’m sending in help. Hang up, and once you’re outside, see if you can call back on a cell. We’ll want to make sure you got out so the fire crew isn’t looking for you.”
An extinguisher’s hiss reassured Rook Dante figured out how to use the damned thing, but the room was quickly becoming a hazard. Taking one last kick at the wrapped canister, Rook got it toward the elevator corridor and through the door as another canister shattered through another of the store’s windows. It careened around out of sight, leaving a stream of noxious smoke pouring out from behind a sales counter.
Whoever was outside was determined to draw them out, and Rook wasn’t certain that’s where he wanted to be.
“Can I bust the windows out?” he screamed over the crackle of the extinguisher, brandishing the rack. The single spire was heavy enough to do some damage, but Rook feared fueling the flames with a rush of air. “Got to get the smoke out!”
“Go! It’s not that bad. Knock the broken one out,” Dante yelled back. His voice was rough, drawn to a rasp from the smoke. “Just stay clear!”
The fire was small, eating through a piece of industrial carpet laid down to cut back on noise, but the retardant held. The extinguisher was an industrial monster the salesman talked Rook into, and as far as he was concerned, was a hair smaller than an actual damned hydrant, but Dante handled it with ease. Shoulder muscles bulging under his sweat-dampened shirt, Dante hefted the canister up and laid down another stream of spray.
“This better not go to shit.” Rook choked on his own spit, coughing out a lungful of smoke. Swinging the rack up, he struck the broken front window with the heavy pedestal, then swore when he lost his grip on the bar. It was enough of a strike to get the base through the window, and he had to duck quickly, covering his face to avoid the errant pieces of glass trickling down from the frame.
The rush of cold air was immediate, and his heart pounded from the fear of the fire catching the torrent and engulfing Dante. Rook’s mouth and nose burned, raw from coughing and smoke inhalation, but he went back into the store, intent on pulling Dante out. Grabbing his lover by the arm, he tried shouting, but his voice cracked, a speckled pain pricking down his throat.
“Come on!” Rook tugged, trying to drag the heavier man out. “Go out the back. Guy in front could have a gun!”
“Yeah. Okay, fire’s done.” As if Rook hadn’t been trying to move him out into the clear air, Dante scooped his arm around Rook’s waist, dragging him toward the back. The swaddled canister was still smoking as they went by, and Dante stumbled over it, working the jackets loose. “Keep going, cuervo. Right out the back.”
The canisters’ plumes were lessening, but it was getting harder to see. Rook blinked, shocked to find his eyes were swelling and he couldn’t breathe through his nose. A hot panic took his nerves, shaking his senses, and he began coughing, unsure if he was pulling in air or simply holding in trapped smoke. He heard Dante hitting the back door open, its heavy weight striking the building’s side.
Hollywood’s night air hit them with an icy slap, and Rook’s lungs seized up, caught in the need for oxygen. The coughing began anew, huge racking spasms twisting his spine and cramping his belly. Swallowing didn’t help. His throat was dry, too dry, and felt as if he’d gulped down a handful of caltrops for dinner. Sirens cut through the neighborhood’s low rattle, and from the sounds coming from the front walk, people were beginning to gather at the edges of the block, witnessing yet another spectacle at Rook’s expense.
“Fuck.” The shakes finally hit, and a dread tightened Rook’s gums, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. “Could have lost you, Montoya. Fucking hell.”
“Hey, I got you,” Dante murmured into his hair, stroking Rook’s back. “Shop’s going to be fine. Just some carpet and a couple of windows. Shit’s been worse, cuervo. You’re fine
.”
“Sure I am,” he coughed into Dante’s chest. “So how come someone’s now trying to kill me?”
Five
“OH GOD, mijo.” Manny walked through the wide breach in Potter’s Field’s front wall, avoiding the workmen trying to remove one of the door’s steel frames. “What happened?”
“Someone tried to kill Rook.” Dante shoved a push broom across the now bare floor, clearing away a scatter of glass fragments. Glancing up at his mother’s younger brother, he snarled, “Again.”
It’d been a hard night, fraught right up until the moment he dragged his lover upstairs to the former dance studio Rook’d converted into an apartment, scrubbed the hell and tear gas remnants off their bodies, then tumbled naked into bed. Then the nightmares hit, long drawn-out terrors Rook couldn’t seem to wake from. Nodding off, he jerked out of dozing, damp with sweat and wild-eyed, reaching for Dante nearly every other hour until his body couldn’t seem to hold out any longer and Rook finally surrendered to an uneasy sleep.
Dante left a sleeping Rook in bed, but he hadn’t stayed there. Five minutes after Dante woke up, Rook was on his feet and out the door, disheveled and needing to stretch his legs. He’d taken enough time to brush his teeth, pull on a pair of tattered jeans, and give Dante a kiss hot enough to take his breath away. Muttering he’d come back with coffee, Rook grabbed his keys and ghosted out.
Two hours ago.
Hollywood seeped in through the broken windows and propped-open front door. The midmorning sun baked the four-lane boulevard, warming the street’s web of tarry patches until their scorched licorice stink permeated the breeze. Bits of street traffic flashed past the intact windows, the thump of a bassline coming from a chunky lowered Toyota rattling Dante’s teeth when it rolled by. There were a few appreciative mutters at the burly men fitting plywood sheets into a cleared-out window frame, and Dante grinned when his uncle pursed his mouth to give a tuneless, soft whistle when one bent over to pick up a power tool from the sidewalk.
Last night, Rook’d covered the glass cases while Dante spoke to the cops, then stood, staring at the broken remains of his storefront. To Dante, the curated merchandise seemed to be intact, but at some point, his lover’s gaze had gone flat and sullen, much like his mood, until the units dispersed. Then he’d reached out for Dante’s hand and held on tight as Dante led him upstairs.
“Let me put my bag down, and then you can tell me what’s going on.” Manny eyed one of the workmen, a warm smile flickering across his expressive mouth. “And he… or you… should have called me. This is my job, you know. I’m supposed to be handling all of these things for him. Leave the broom. The day staff will be here soon. They can help clean up until we’re ready to open. Is everything here? Were we robbed?”
“Place looks like a war zone, but I think it’s okay. Firebug guys said it was probably someone who didn’t know what they were doing. Probably meant to vandalize or rob the place, maybe smash through the windows, using the fire as a cover. Problem was, the bottles they used were heavy and had way too much accelerant in them. So in the end, not a robbery, just… a shit storm, and I don’t know where Rook’s gone.” Dante gave a skeptical glance at broken panes he’d hastily boarded up at two in the morning after the uniforms he’d called in finally left. “They’re not going to install new windows, tío. These guys are only securing the—”
“I know what they’re doing. You leave that and make sure I have some coffee.” His uncle nodded toward the door leading to the shop’s office and storage areas. “I am going to find a sheet. Then you’re going to catch me up on what happened last night with you and your cuervo.”
“What’s the sheet for?” Dante rearranged a tarp over the odd soft-form sculpture Rook put in place of his decimated Chewbacca. “Everything that needs covering is taken care of.”
“Oh, mijo. The sheet isn’t for covering things. It’s to spray paint and make a sign to hang on the boards outside.” Manny barked a laugh. “Now go on and get the coffee going. I’ll be along as soon as I can get someone in to watch the store while they finish up here.”
THE COFFEE maker had burbled its final gasp by the time Manny joined him in the office. His uncle bustled in, juggling his messenger bag and a large plastic tote weighted down with what looked like white fabric. Dante reached for the heavy bag, grunted at its heft, then maneuvered it into one of the two odd chairs Manny bought for his private domain.
What was once a bit of floor space for the store, a quick frame-out and drywall made an employees’ lounge and office at the end of a corridor leading to the back door and storerooms. Newly built, the place still smelled a little bit of paint, and everything glistened with bits of chrome among the comfortable padded chairs in the lounge. Manny’d objected to a space, but Rook was stubborn. If he was going to hire Manny as the store’s manager, the older man would need an office, and the employees Manny hired would need a place to take breaks.
Manny’s objections were drowned out in a bit of Rook’s cockiness, but Dante knew his uncle was secretly delighted, especially when Rook told him to decorate the spaces however he wanted as long as there was a coffee machine, a fridge, and a couple of couches.
Since the steel monster in the lounge looked like it was built to torture secrets out of an Alderaan diplomat and produced about as much coffee as information they’d pulled from the princess, Dante bullied a pot of strong coffee from the old-school electric percolator Manny set up on an old Victorian-era sideboard behind his desk.
It was a fairly nice-sized office, with windows running along the top of the outer-facing wall, and decorated by a gleeful Manny in a style Dante could only call early garage sale remnants and bingo-playing abuelita castoffs. A heavily embellished cherrywood executive desk shared the space with a red leather chesterfield sofa, two swing chairs, and the sideboard. A faux Tiffany standing lamp dominated a corner by the door, and Manny sighed when Dante pointed out it was missing a crystal from the cascade of teardrops dangling from its stained-glass shade, and when Rook rolled out an enormous, slightly faded Persian rug he and Manny found at a swap meet, they’d both rolled their eyes at him after he dragged his toe over a cigarette scorch at its edge.
And if he wasn’t quite sure he’d lost his place as Manny’s favorite, Dante knew for certain Rook shoved him aside, tucked the marred edge of the rug under the chesterfield, then blushed when Manny hugged him and murmured in Spanish that he loved him.
There’d been significant changes in his uncle in the few weeks since he’d began working for Rook. He was still nearly a mirror image of Dante’s mother, a relatively short, soft-around-the-middle Mexican man from Laredo, but there was a spring to Manny’s step, an eagerness to go out into the world every morning. His broad, ready smiles were now a touch more sincere, and more than once, Dante’d come in from the back of the building from Rook’s place to find his uncle holding court among a group of rapt tourists and staff with his opinion on an old movie Dante never heard of.
Dante could no longer deny it. The evidence was right in front of his face. His slightly round former drag queen, breast cancer conqueror of an uncle… glowed.
“You’re looking at me funny, mijo.” Manny eyed him suspiciously, hanging his bag on the hat rack by the door. “What happened?”
“Nothing.” He leaned forward to stand up and get coffee, but his uncle waved him back down, passing the couch toward the sideboard. Bone-tired, Dante slumped into the sofa, grateful for the comfort. “I was just thinking how you look happy. Almost like you’ve got a boyfriend or something.”
“Please, the last thing I need is a boyfriend. I’ve got too much to do now. That sort of thing is going to have to wait. I wouldn’t say no, but I’m not going to dig around for someone to say yes.” Manny came back with a couple of coffee mugs, nudging Dante’s foot to move him over. “Get settled and take one.”
“Why am I moving?” Grumbling wouldn’t solve anything. His uncle wanted to sit on that side of the couch, so of course
he’d move, but not without a little grousing as he went. The sofa squeaked under him as he shuffled over, then reached across to take one of the mugs. “This one mine?”
“Yes, it is bitter and dark like your soul.” Tucking his legs under, Manny teased, switching to the Spanish they’d both grown up speaking. “Now, tell me, what happened? Who is trying to kill our little crow?”
“It’s more than that, Uncle. Our little crow’s gone back to his old tricks.” Dante took a deep breath. “And it all starts off with that dead cousin I told you about.”
Manny listened. Silently. Intently. And leaving Dante with little doubt he had his uncle’s full attention. He’d started with the call and the cops, then drifted into his worry about Rook’s storm of nightmares.
“I don’t know what to do, Manny. That cop, Vicks, has me worried. He’s mean, spiteful, and I know that gleam in his eye, the smugness on his face. He wants to hurt Rook for something, but I can’t tell you what,” Dante confessed softly, setting his empty coffee cup on the floor. “Yesterday was a minefield. Getting that call from Rook, him telling me he’d broken into a house—his cousin’s house—and then finding the man dead? It was already too much, but to come home, after all of that, to this happening? How much more can he take? Can we take?”
“Are you worried he’s done with you? With living a normal life?” His uncle leaned in, placing his soft hand on Dante’s thigh. “Because he loves you, son. I’ve seen him look at you, talk to you. He is very much in love with you.”
“But does he love me more than he fears being trapped?” His question stung as it left him, its barbs ripping his throat as he yanked his words free. “Because right now, Uncle, I worry he’s going to run. Not because he doesn’t love me. But because he can’t help but run. It’s all he’s ever known.”
