by Riley, A. M.
gentleman. He held his ground, stepping directly into my path in the road,
actually, smoking his cigarette like a vaquero or something. Pinched between
thumb and forefinger, hand masking part of his face.
“You got a light, señor?” he said, doing his best Pancho Villa accent.
I could smell him from ten feet away. It was like getting a whiff of a steak
dinner. My mouth filled with saliva and I could feel something weird happening
to my teeth, making my lips recede. “Your friends are calling you,” I told him.
Except I kind of lisped on account of my teeth. “Your friendth…”
He didn't notice anything about me. Probably because he was hopped up
on something. I could see it in his eyes, the way he rolled on his feet, and one
side of his mouth smiling higher than the other. Mostly I could tell because
guys his size don't get in the way of guys my size.
Sweaty, stinky, musky, and raw, his blood pumping with fear and
whatever drug he was on.
I heard and felt, rather than saw, his friends reappear around us.
They're like packs of hyenas, these guys. None of 'em's a true predator but
they're dangerous as a group. The man facing me down was head hyena,
greasy ponytail down his back, and a Salvation Army khaki vest with pockets
all over it. He started coming toward me.
I backed away. “You don't want to do this, man,” I said.
They're closing in around me and my man has got this grin.
He took a few more steps toward me and I let him. His one hand waved
back and forth, opening and closing in a fist. I couldn't see his other hand.
He got a little closer and then the hidden hand came out sideways and
fast, a flash of silver following its arc. I jumped and just avoid getting sliced.
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He was obviously surprised at how quickly I reacted, but he spun around
and took another jab at me. I grabbed his arm and just jerked it and heard the
bone crack. He screamed.
I can't explain what happened next, exactly, but I threw him face forward
into a wall and got the knife, held his wrists with one hand, jerked his head
back with the other, and I think I planned to say “piss off” or something into
his ear, but when I got into the proximity of his neck I bit him.
You ever tried to fast with a chocolate cheesecake inches from your
mouth? No? Then shut up.
I bit him. Hard enough to puncture his skin and blood trickled across my
tongue and for a few amazing seconds all I could think about was how good it
was, how right, and it was awhile before I was in my right mind again and I
heard men screaming.
I dropped the Mexican's senseless body onto the ground. He had two big
bloody holes in his neck and there was blood all down the front of my shirt.
Goddamn, how do I go from bad to worse so fast? So I sprinted back down
Fountain toward the main boulevard, in the opposite direction of the pack that
was running away from me, leaping over fences and behind buildings.
I looked back at my man. He was moving around on the ground. So, at
least he wasn't dead yet. A part of me was urging my feet to turn around and
go back. There's more blood where that came from. Another part was afraid of
discovery. I'd like to say some moral code kicked in. Sorry to disappoint you. I
was then, as I always have been, solely motivated by the preservation of yours
truly. The delivery ramp to the Motion Picture Academy was on my left.
Somebody had left the door ajar. I jumped the railing and ran inside.
Down the stairs. They descended at least three levels.
I could smell the rancid odor of decaying film and saw stacks of dust-
covered white film storage boxes. The dull silver of old cans. I ran until I'd
reached the bottom level.
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There were no lights but that weird capacity of my eyes to see in the dark
kicked in. I looked around, and in the blueish glow I saw a large room with
doorways to two other small rooms. No windows. No light seeping in at all.
Some poor old bum had used a mattress in the corner. I could still smell
his piss and sweat. I sat down.
I dug out the prepaid cell phone and frantically dialed Peter's number.
“'Lo?” I'd woken him.
“Peter, it's Adam.”
I heard him sit up, look around. When he came back on the line his voice
had that clipped sound it got when I'd cheesed him off again. “Where are you?”
“In the basement of the Motion Picture Academy Archives. Don't ask…
just, Peter, I've got to get out of here.”
Above me and outside, I could hear the climbing wail of sirens. Probably
one of the Mexican's crew had called in the assault.
“And, uh, Peter, there might be some black-and-whites on the street when
you get here.”
Peter didn't answer. After awhile I realized that the call had dropped. So I
sat there in the dark with the smell of piss and thought about the taste of the
Mexican's blood.
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Chapter Thirteen
What do you see when you close your eyes?
I mean, after those little silver fish and floating dots subside. And all you
can hear is the surf in your skull and your own breathing?
I'll bet here is where you expect me to reveal my tormented past. The
rageaholic father and mousy mother, the best buddy killed in action in the
Middle East. Even those soft dark bruises in the psyche. Questions about my
own manhood, my own cowardice.
Well, that ain't happening in this story. Maybe the next one.
Working undercover is a lot like active duty in the corps. A constant state
of awareness, readiness. Reading every scenario for how it might play out. I
close my eyes, I see that look the kid in the corner gave the big goon by the
door. I see little details I might not have recognized before and I see the actors
in my own mind and figure out my next move.
While I waited for Peter I saw the past few days playing out in my head
again. As I thought, my fingers wandered to my neck where the puncture
wounds still felt like deep bruises. When I pressed them, the hunger in my
belly, temporarily quelled at least, growled a low warning.
I wasn't the man I had been. That was clear. I wasn't sure what that
meant. The man I had been was a sorry mess. My death in the warehouse had
come as no surprise. The man I had been could not be a friend, could not be
trusted.
The man I had been had been loved by Peter.
Ay, there's the rub, as that Danish guy said.
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Right on cue I heard voices, the metallic clang of booted feet on the stairs.
Then a low rumbling voice that I could recognize three floors up, even without
being able to distinguish the words, as Peter.
Covering for me again.
Now the slow tap tap of his feet on the concrete stairs. A shuffle and the
pauses as he probably scanned every floor with a flashlight, looking for me. I
could only imagine what he expected to find. My body bled out on the floor
again? Maybe one of those piles of greasy ash that Aybie had become?
Something weird, fluttery, and full of shadows took up residence in my
belly and I got off the mattress and started wandering the doorless, windowless
rooms. Like I would in a padded cell of a mental ward, probably. Like I was
trying to find an exit.
Tap. Tap. The white lantern beam flowed down the bottom of the concrete
steps outside the door and slid up and around the frame. That seeking light
found its way along the wall until finally it shone fully in my eyes.
I heard Peter exhale, shakily. “Adam.”
I shook my head in denial.
The light still in my eyes, I heard his feet cross the floor, felt his hand on
my arm. Warm. Alive. “Are you all right?” he asked.
I shook my head and moved my arm away from him. The beam of the
flashlight dropped so he could scan my body with the light, checking for
wounds. His hand kept going to me. Stroking touches disguised as an
inspection. Opening my jacket, straightening the collar of the T-shirt.
“You son of a bitch,” he whispered now. His hand wandered up and gently
cupped my chin. I saw his eyes flash in the dark. He probably thought I
couldn't see him. Couldn't see the fear and longing there. Then he grabbed my
chin and pressed a kiss against my lips.
“What kind of mess have you gotten yourself into?” he said.
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His kiss had opened some door and I needed him. I grabbed his shoulders,
turned him so his back hit the wall, and kissed him thoroughly. Hearing the
moan of pleasure, feeling it vibrate between our shared mouths. His tongue
pressing hungrily into mine.
I found his shirt buttons, his belt buckle with my fingers, as my mouth
kept up its assault. His hips rocked toward me, his skin shivering under my
hands. I heard my buckle open and zipper go down.
“Over here.” I broke the kiss long enough to grasp his hips and steer him
toward the mattress.
On his knees, slacks pushed down, shirt pushed up. He fumbled in a
pocket and tossed a foil packet in my general direction. I was going to ignore it
but then I thought about the new man I had become. And who knew how that
had happened? What I might be carrying in my blood and semen? I might have
escaped the HIV by the skin of my teeth, but any gambler knows not to push
his odds.
I slid the condom on and pushed myself into Peter hard and all at once.
He groaned and went down onto his elbows, cheek on the mattress. My
need for him was selfish and wild and I pounded away, reaching for release. At
some point, Peter found himself and I could feel him tightening around me, as
if egging me on.
I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and shoved hard. His torso
twisted slightly. He gasped and a shivering climax worked its way down my
spine and around my cock. The lights went off all around me like a proverbial
fireworks display for some time.
And then it was quiet except for the hard beat of Peter's heart against my
chest.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathed.
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“Yeah.” I withdrew and tied off the condom. Lay my hand on his ass,
which still stuck up in the air. My cock gave a little twitch and I knew I'd be
good to go again soon. Wow.
Peter managed to get himself upright, dragging his slacks up and rubbing
his hand across his hair. He seemed to actually realize where we had landed at
that point and his face acquired a look of utter disgust.
He sprang to his feet and I rose also. “Sorry about that,” I said.
The flashlight had rolled off to a corner, its beam steady on a stack of
document storage boxes. From where I stood I could see “1986” on one of them.
Peter picked up the light and swept the beam around the room. Taking in every
square inch.
“I can see why you didn't bother to turn on the lights,” he said. “How long
have you been down here?”
“I can see in the dark,” I said. I saw his head lower at that. “I just ran
down here. Is the sun up yet?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, then I guess I'm stuck here.”
Peter's flashlight found a chair with the back broken off. He righted it and
sat down, drawing a loop on the floor with a light for a minute until he clicked
the thing off and just sat in the dark.
“Can you see me?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He was silent, thinking. “What the hell happened tonight, Adam?”
“I need more blood,” I said. “I'm going fucking crazy. Like worse than
withdrawal.”
“And, so…” He took a deep breath. “You…” He waved a hand toward the
general vicinity of upstairs.
“It was an accident. Is he…is he okay?”
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“He'll live.” Another of Peter's long pauses in which, I imagined, he
weighed and tested what he was going to say. “But we found another one.”
“Another one what?”
“Up in the Tips on Overland. Another DB with huge holes in his body,
exsanguinated.” Peter's voice was bleak, hopeless.
“I didn't do that.” Did he think I could? “Christ, Peter.”
“You were seen, Adam. Witnesses identified your bike.”
“I was set to meet him, but he was dead when I got there.”
“Like your CI.”
“I didn't do it!” I screamed. My voice echoed, several throbs of the last word
seeming to pulse in the air around us. “You have to believe me,” I added
desperately. “He'd been dead for a while when I found him. When the ME gives
you TOD, check it out. A waitress there will remember me. She had a tab that I
didn't pay and there'll be a time on it.” Odds were good, of course, that the
same check would prove that I had been in the vicinity in the correct time
frame. TOD was a wacky thing to establish. Sometimes I'd swear the coroner
did it with a divining rod and I Ching coins.
Peter leaned over, elbows on knees, head down. He looked defeated and
tired. “Okay,” he said.
“He never gave me his name,” I said. “You find out who he was?”
“No ID yet. But he had the Mongol tat on his forearm.”
The Mongols would never let anyone but their own crew wear that tat. And
no tattoo artist with half a brain would agree to ink one that wasn't earned and
authorized.
“That ass was a one percenter?”
He looked utterly disgusted. “Not up to their high standards?”
“You know what I mean. There'll be a war when they find out. First
Freeway, then what's his name.”
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“And you.”
“Yeah, and me.”
He shook his head. There was four feet of space between us and it may as
well have been four hundred feet. Four hundred thousand feet. “Adam, you
have to turn yourself in.”
“You know I can't.”
“You're a murder suspect.”
“I didn't do it, Peter. Listen, I've fucked around a lot but have I ever out-
and-out lied to you?”
It took him longer than I would have lik
ed to answer. “No,” he finally said.
“I'm not lying now. I haven't killed anybody. I've thought about it. I'm
going bats, but I haven't done it.”
Peter stood, flicking on his flashlight. “I've got to go.”
There was a finality to that statement. I couldn't put my finger on it, but I
felt that he was taking leave, as they say.
“See you later?”
He shook his head. “Leave town, Adam. Just. Go.” Peter stood and placed
something on the chair that I'd later discover was my new ATM card. His
flashlight picked out the door and the path across the floor to it.
“Peter?” I said when he had reached the doorway. He paused, back to me.
“Yes?”
“I didn't kill anyone,” I said.
“I hope so,” he said. And left.
* * * * *
If I ever really die and get my just reward, it can't be worse than the next
eight hours were. Sitting in a dark room with nothing but my own thoughts
and impotent to do anything about it.
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145
I tried Albert's cell a couple more times. It still went straight to voice mail.
God knew where the phone was or in whose possession, so I didn't leave a
message.
I'd worked homicide and gang task force and I'd worked undercover with
OMG's for years. I knew how long it could take to get to the bottom of an
operation like the one Whitey had hinted at. Years, maybe. It had taken us
three years to make a case against El Diablo.
Three years without Peter was a long time.
Because I knew Peter and I knew that he might turn a blind eye to a lot of
my shit. But he'd never have relations with a homicide suspect.
Obviously it was up to me to find the bastard at the bottom of this. For
Peter's sake. Because that poor guy? Would never have sex again if I didn't
make him.
Okay, I'm going to tell you that I felt the sun set and you're going to roll
your eyes and think I went buggy down there in the dark. Fine. Think what you
want.
I felt the sun set. I pulled my shit together and I left.
My bike was where I'd parked it. Knowing Peter, he'd probably cruised by
