Paul chuckled. “The only rules and laws down here belong to Don Russo. There are no police, no surveillance cameras, and no one who doesn’t either follow or fear him.”
“The cops are never in here?” asked Cash.
“Almost never. They clear the place out every New Year’s Eve. Security precautions for the millions celebrating above. Wouldn’t want a WMD going off under Caesar’s Palace. They come down if they’re hunting for a big time criminal or a high priority missing person. That’s pretty much it. They generally leave the tunnel dwellers alone. Better to tuck them underground than pestering the tourists above. That’s where the major coin comes from, sucka.”
“Everyone fears this guy, but he owes you a favor?” asked Rob.
“He owes my dad a favor, but I’m gonna collect it for you guys. My dad is an attorney and he’s the main reason that Russo is running this place instead of some prison exercise yard.”
Cash shone her light on Paul. “Is this any better than prison?”
“For him it is. He’s the big cheese. He loves it. He couldn’t live by prison rules. He does what he wants, society be damned.”
“I’ve heard that song before,” said Rob. “John Gotti, Al Capone. They always wind up taking a fall.”
“He’s not really like them,” said Paul. “They flashed what they had. Expensive suits, fancy cars. They craved attention. Don Russo doesn’t want any of that. He just wants life on his terms. He doesn’t conform to anything. Don’t think of Gotti or Capone. They did certain things that are expected of all people in civilized countries; had families, appeared in public, wore clothing.”
“Wore clothing?” asked Cash.
Paul adjusted his helmet light and kept staring down the tunnel as he replied.
“Don Russo doesn’t wear clothes. Too conformist.”
“What does he wear?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“So this Don title is because he’s like a Mafia boss or something?” asked Rob.
“No. His name is just Don Russo. It’s not a title. Is Rob a fucking title?”
They spotted an apartment of sorts up ahead. Two beds, a bookshelf, clothes rack, television with a wire running up the concrete wall behind it. All items were elevated, being set upon crates, to minimize water damage. Of course, if a true flood came barreling through, it could all be gone in minutes.
Cash was particularly intrigued with the tidily arranged living quarters. She assumed it did not belong to Don Russo. There was, after all, a clothes rack.
“Hello?” yelled Paul, hearing nothing but a faint reverberation in return. “We are just passing through,” he continued. “Not looking for any trouble.”
No response.
They moved closer, nearer to the beds, which were neatly made. Sheets and blankets tucked under.
“I don’t like to sneak up on anyone,” said Paul, speaking softly now. “People can overreact. It feels almost like we’re trespassing.”
“So, this isn’t the bunker we’re headed to?” inquired Rob.
“Oh, no. This is just home to a couple of independents. Most of the tunnels are like this. The bunker is the only area that I know of that has any structure.”
“So these people can leave their TV and all of their possessions unattended, but we put suitcases down for five minutes and they’re in the wind?”
“Tunnel etiquette. This is their home.”
Ten minutes later they had arrived. The tunnel split into another double-barrel. It was the tallest and widest that they had come across. They were greeted in the glow of their lights by two men, one rather stout, and a scent that was either potent marijuana or skunk.
“There’s a way to go around,” said the first guy, pointing. He didn’t sound outright unfriendly, and maybe even more professional than expected, considering he looked like a hot shower might be in order. “This is a private camp.”
A tattered silver and black Oakland Raiders curtain hung behind them, keeping their group’s home hidden. Beyond the drape, however, there was light.
“We’re here to see Don Russo,” said Paul.
The men sized him up.
“You been here before? Your face is memorable,” said the second man, his hot breath revealing the mystery smell to be cannabis, unless he had just consumed a Palawan stink badger. He had a large growth protruding from just behind his right knee, under his cutoff shorts. It was redder than the rest of him, rough and chafed, about the size of a basketball.
“My name is Bhong. Paul Bhong,” he looked back at Rob and Cash, giving them a 007 grin. “Pay no attention to the man behind the Raiders’ curtain,” he added. Despite everything, it brought a smile to Cash’s lips, her strawberry balm glistening in Paul’s light.
“Why you wanna see Don?”
“Would you please do me a solid and just tell him I’m here. I think he’ll see us.”
The men looked at each other. “I’ll go,” said Skunk Breath.
As he disappeared behind the Raiders curtain and into the light, the remaining man called to the parallel tunnel. “Spats,” he yelled.
Out of the blackness of an equalizer hole appeared Spats’ head. “What?” he asked, as he spotted the three visitors. He stared for a good long time. Probably not at Rob or Paul.
“Just be aware that I got overheads here, Spats. You and Yurman just be on your toes there.”
Spats kept ogling Cash. Rob heard the grate of his own teeth as he watched, jaw clenched, through the light from Paul’s hat. Then Cash whispered in his ear. Her breath was candy-sweet. It calmed him.
“In case this hasn’t crossed your mind,” she hushed, “we are waiting here, surrounded by some type of doped-up security detail, just hoping for the chance to have an audience with some deranged chieftain of the sewer, who is, most likely, swinging-dick naked.”
Rob pondered that as he stared back at the man who gawked at his girlfriend.
“Well,” offered Rob, “it’s really not the sewer.”
They walked among the beds. All were up on crates. It wasn’t a five-star hotel, but it was nearly the equal of some hostels they’d seen. Lights of varying types were on the walls and atop some old and occasionally water-damaged tables and dressers. On some of the beds were people. All types. Most of them thin and pale. Some played cards or read; others slept. Few made any eye contact. Their clothing was generally tattered, yet most items were folded neatly in piles or hanging from lines.
Strawberry incense filled the air. It concealed the marijuana smell, for the most part. The pleasant scent had Paul craving a frozen daiquiri. Rob’s thoughts were of Cash’s lip balm.
Skunk Breath—he had not yet introduced himself—led the way. He moved briskly for a man with a substantial leg growth, though his left leg brushed against it with each step. Cash’s mag and Paul’s helmet light were turned off. The wide tunnel had ample space in which they could walk, even with the beds all against one wall. A handful of men and a couple of women stood along the other wall, near a collection of worn, rusty bicycles. Rob assumed this was more of the security that Paul had talked about. He looked for weapons of any sort but saw none. He wasn’t too concerned about the basic quality of life in the tunnels and didn’t give a thought to the lack of privacy or apparent drug use. He was focused on only one thing: keeping Cash safe from potential cannis.
Including, and perhaps especially, himself.
“Have you ever filmed in here, Paul?” asked Cash. “This could go viral.”
“Yes. Don Russo then danced on my phone.”
A bit further along they heard the music. Some type of old disco maybe, with lots of keyboards. None of them recognized it.
There were more black Oakland Raiders curtains. One read, Las Vegas Raiders. They surrounded a large section of a tunnel that had to be fifty feet wide. They created three false walls to go with one true concrete one at the back, making a room-within-a-room; well, within-a storm-drain. The music came from behind the curtains. Silhouettes
of dancing bodies could be seen. Colorful light escaped through breaks in the curtains, as did pot smoke and laughter.
“Wait here,” ordered Skunk Breath, who disappeared behind the Raiders cloth.
Cash stood there, inhaling the weed, and the strawberry incense. She was up to her elbows in hand-sanitizer. She scoured the wall behind her looking for spiders and roaches or any moving shadow. None were seen, but she could still feel them on her, sliding on her sweat. This veritable tomb on the nether side of Earth, awash in clashing scents, crawling with vermin and lunatics, somehow housed a group of people who, in the current state of life, found themselves dancing and laughing. They weren’t grabbing baseball bats, ready to fight off the next canni. They weren’t searching out refuge and help, only to be turned away. They also probably hadn’t killed the best friend they’d ever had.
LAS VEGAS
The bus reached the station without incident. There was almost a collective sigh among the passengers. The sober ones, at least. A couple of the drunks had to be roused by the driver, a stone-faced fellow with a sweaty brow and four strands of carefully-combed brown straw. His midsection had grown wide over the years; wider than what seemed symmetrical for the rest of his body. Looked as though his waist had expanded around him through decades in that driver’s seat. It was almost like he’d buttoned his uniform over one of those long-haul coach tires. Henry was his name. His damp forehead surely came with the task of transporting a cargo of ticking time bombs from L.A. to Vegas, all while wondering if he might have an episode himself and possibly steer his bus off the side of a mountain. A driver with his seniority should have automatically qualified for the routes that came with security, but there were always those elements of ass-kissing, nepotism, palm-greasing, and fair-haired superstars, to muck up the way that life should actually roll. Henry had grown tired of the fight. He was just a quiet and dependable worker. Never caused a fuss, never sought attention. Just got his passengers from A to B as easily as possible.
The passengers were filing down the center aisle of the bus, one behind another. Henry stood outside, at the bottom of the front door steps. His smile appeared to be more of a clenched jaw, as if he were examining his teeth in a mirror. He uttered something to each exiting passenger.
“Goodbye, now.”
“Enjoy Las Vegas.”
“Thanks for riding with us today.”
Inside the vehicle, Willie stood with his new sightless friend. He helped him slip his backpack on.
“Let ‘em all get off,” Willie said. “I’ll lead you out at the end.”
“Thank you kindly, but I can . . . ”
“I won’t hear of it,” said Willie, “I’m six-foot-six and three hundred and eleven pounds, and I’m terrified ridin’ this death trap. I can’t imagine if I wasn’t able to see. We’re gettin’ off together. Now, you got my phone number. You call me if you need anything while I’m here.”
“I will, my enormous friend. Thanks for everything.”
“I still don’t believe you don’t carry a phone.”
“It’s not my thing. Most of those bells and whistles don’t chime for me.”
As Willie led his friend down the bus steps, toward the Las Vegas night, the blind man could smell that the leather-perfumed woman had just disembarked, as had the inebriated men. Henry stood beside the open front door at the bottom of the vehicle’s stairs. He reached out to assist Willie in helping his friend navigate the final steps.
“Thanks for riding with us. Enjoy Las Vegas,” said clenched-jawed Henry.
“Sure will,” grinned the young man with the dark glasses and thin white cane.
Willie thanked the driver for his assistance and stopped to say his goodbyes to his new pal.
The football player’s hands felt like weights on his slim shoulders. He could feel Willie fixing his backpack straps for him, as he spoke. He smelled the Alien Fresh Jerky that Willie had loaded up on at a famous tourist stop during the ride. This one was hot and BBQ as it colored his buddy’s breath.
“I hope you find your sister, Willie,” he said.
“I will. She’s run off in the past. Fancies herself as a star. Not sure if dancin’ on a pole makes someone famous, but, in her mind . . . Well, I’ll find her. I done it before.”
“If I can help in any way . . . ”
“Yeah brother, you don’t know what she looks like, can’t see for shit, and you don’t even own a phone . . . You’re hired!”
They laughed. A wave of beef jerky hit the smaller man in his face.
That’s when the blind man was stunned by what he first thought to be a punch to his jaw. He tumbled to the pavement as the first screams rang out. He believed he heard Willie’s voice within the commotion.
“Willie?” he yelled. He felt the pain of his backpack pushing into his spine as he hit the ground. His dark glasses had come off and his cane was lost. He reached for it, to no avail. He felt that strange “punch” again, but now could tell it was not a fist. It was much larger. It was breathing.
It was trying to wedge its way between his shoulders and jawline.
It wanted his neck.
He hunched his head into his shoulders, trying to prevent it. He smelled an Italian hero sandwich. Some might call it a hoagie or a sub. Regardless, he inhaled ham, capocollo, provolone, salami, cigar smoke remnants, and fresh vomit.
Then he heard Willie for sure.
“Oh, hell no, muthafucka.”
What the sightless victim could not see was that Henry the bus driver was on him, mouth foaming, trying to tear into his neck. The thick-waisted bus operator had tossed three-hundred- pound Willie aside like a Girl Scout as he went for his target.
Now, Willie was back and lifting the canni as he did so many barbells in his days at UCLA. Unfortunately for Willie, to a canni one neck was as good as another, and Henry turned his painful, insatiable hunger to the big guy.
Now they were both atop the blind man; canni on top, Willie in the middle.
He felt all the weight on him—well over five hundred pounds. This pressed him harder onto his backpack. He endured the struggle and heard the groans and growls. For the first time in years, he felt helpless. Willie could be heard cussing, and Henry just sounded like some type of bear or wolf. He knew he might be able to wiggle out from under this, but even then, how could he save Willie?
As the struggle continued above him, he heard his big friend scream. Then he felt it, all warm on his face.
Blood.
Not his own, but dripping, perhaps pouring, from above.
“Help us!” he yelled, wondering to where an entire coach full of passengers might have vanished. They were close enough to be watching and yelling. Of that, he was sure.
He wiggled out from under the attack, reaching out, feeling around on the ground for his cane. He heard what sounded like a light metal rattle, probably after being kicked, and he went for it. There it was. Though at that moment, he’d happily trade his thin, aluminum cane for a thick, blackthorn walking stick, or maybe even a guide dog along the lines of Cujo. Nevertheless, he picked it up and started flailing at the top of the pile, at the canni.
“For God’s sake, somebody help us!”
The infected Henry paid no mind to the cane strikes as he bit away at Willie, a piece of arm here, a chunk of clothing there. The former lineman did a good job of protecting his neck, yet this bus driver, whom Willie could normally incapacitate in seconds, was in this state, many times stronger than his victim.
He must have struck the canni a dozen times with his cane before he was shoved aside. He smelled booze.
“We got this,” was all he heard.
He stepped back, knowing he could offer little help to the sighted in a case like this.
The drunkards who had spent the ride in alternating states of sleep, drink, and regurgitation, had come to help. They grabbed the canni from behind and began to lift.
“Push, big man,” one of them yelled to the supine victim. Bloodied and
tiring, Willie enacted his best bench press. Between the three of them, Henry was wrestled to his feet. Luckily for all, he seemed more intent on feeding off Willie than tossing them all around like so many flies. His teeth clattered away inside his foamy mouth, the blood on his double chin pale in vibrancy against the redness of his gaping eyes.
Behind them all was the idling charter coach. The front door was still open.
“Push him towards the bus,” bellowed one of the drinkers.
They gave it their all, with Willie bull-rushing the canni as if the college lineman was clearing a lane for his tailback. The attacker was beginning to move backwards as he bit at the top of Willie’s clammy head.
Willie managed to speak as he and the drunks pushed with everything they had. “Hey, Daredevil,” he said, panting and groaning as he surged, “find me, get behind me, and shove like hell, brother.”
The blind man was at the back of the pile instantly, adding all of his strength to the thrusting effort. Another fellow, in a mechanic’s uniform, grease and all, with a name patch on his shirt that read Eddie V, dashed from the bus depot to help. Two women, clothed like they’d just left church on Easter Sunday, leaped from a wooden bench to join the charge. The canni was forced into the bus. He tripped backwards over the steps, and they were able to slam the door shut.
There were seven people pressed up against that door, yet it still began to open.
Until it shut again.
It was a tremendous struggle. Canni Henry punched his arm right through the thick, tinted glass on the top half of the door. He felt around frantically, clawing and grabbing at air. The folks pressing against the door were all hunched low, staying below his swinging reach, as glass shards showered upon them.
“Stay low, Daredevil,” shouted Willie, concerned for his sightless friend behind him and ignoring his own dizziness and weakened knees.
The canni began to wriggle and clamber through the window frame. More glass fell. The jagged remnants slashed his skin as he tried to squeeze through the smashed outlet, grunting and growling with hunger. His bloodied hands swung just above the faces of the door-blockers. Shoulders and above, he was now out above his crouching adversaries, chunky fluid pouring from his mouth and onto their heads and faces.
Canni Page 13
