Angel of Vengeance

by Trevor O. Munson

  “You don’t wanna do this,” I say.

  “Actually, I do.” The meth makes him laugh too hard.

  “What about the cops?”

  He shrugs. “You broke into my house. I’m within my rights to shoot you.”

  “Just like that?”

  “No. Just like this.” He pulls the trigger. The gun barks. Twice. I’m too close to miss. The bullets catch me in the chest, spin me, and throw me back over a lounge chair. I go down. Hard.

  I don’t care who you are, bullets hurt. There’s no getting around it. The pain isn’t as bad as the first bullet I ever took— that was the worst—but it’s far from good. Kind of like a root canal that starts before the Novocain has fully kicked in.

  Vin’s eight hundred dollar Italian shoes whisper sweet nothings on the carpet and then he’s standing above me. “Thought you was a real tough customer, didn’t you? Comin’ in here and trying to intimidate me. But guess what, pal? Vin Prince don’t intimidate.”

  I play possum, hoping maybe Vin won’t shoot me any more if he thinks I’m dead. Well deader, anyway. He doesn’t. What he does is rear back and kick me hard in the head like a forward trying to score on a penalty kick. I don’t flinch. I don’t move. I lie there and take it. If there’s one thing vampires are good at, it’s playing dead. Vin kicks me hard five or six more times. “How’d you like that, you fuck? How’d you like that?”

  I wait it out. I guess I sell it. Or maybe he just gets bored. Meth-heads need lots of stimulation. In any case, after two more half-hearted kicks, he struts back to the couch and sets the gun down in favor of his pipe.

  I let him get a little medicine in him before I stand up and stagger over and tap him on the back of one shoulder. He turns with a yelp. I take the pipe and help him off with his sunglasses.

  “Since you asked, I didn’t like it, Vin. Not any of it,” I say, feeling a sensation similar to a near-death adrenaline rush as the change begins.

  Meth-eyed, he turns and goes for the gun, but it might as well be a feather duster for all the good it will do him now. I stop him with a vicious clamp to the throat. I squeeze until he gets all woozy and docile-like, then I set him back on the couch.

  In my experience, there are two basic kinds of people—rabbits and deer. Rabbits bolt when they witness a vampire metamorphose. They’ll Bugs Bunny through walls in the attempt to get away. They have to be caught and taken down. Deer, on the other hand, freeze up, hardly able to move or even breathe in the car-headlight horror of what they are seeing. There’s never any way to predict who’ll do what.

  As it turns out, Vin’s a deer. He sits on the couch, mouth open like a bulldozer blade, as he watches it happen. When it’s done he just quivers and hyperventilates as I settle down beside him and take his head in my hands. Since it’s his first time I try to make it nice, but I think it hurts him a little. The first time always hurts a little.

  13

  When I awaken, I go through the usual routine with Vin. I drag him to the tub. I sever what needs severing. I bleed him dry. I fill my vials. I erase evidence. I leave.

  I take the fresh blood supply back to the office and store it in my mini-fridge where it’ll keep. Then I strip my bullet-ruined shirt off and take a gander at my new ventilation system. They hurt, don’t think they don’t. The dime-sized holes at mid-chest level I can see, but I have to reach around and feel for the ones in back. Both bullets went all the way through. I’m glad about it. As glad as you can be about a thing like that, anyway. Good old Vin must have preferred solid bullets to hollow-points. I’m glad about that too.

  I go to the deep freeze and grab a handful of the grave dirt that serves as my mattress. I drop it in a bowl and muddy it with some of Vin’s blood. When I get the right consistency, I pack the holes finger-deep, spackle them off, bandage them, and wrap my torso in gauze. It’ll take a little time, but they’ll heal. The dirt and blood will speed the process. Vampire homeopathy 101.

  Before I leave I put in a call to information to see if I can get an address for a Reesa Van Cleef. I can’t. Somehow I knew it wasn’t going to be that easy. I hang up. It rings as soon as the earpiece touches the cradle. I pick up.

  “Angel.”

  “Jesus Christ, don’t you ever answer your phone?” a female voice demands.

  “I just did. Who is this?”

  “Callie—Dallas. I’ve been calling you all day. Where have you been?”

  “Went to a funeral. You ready to talk?”

  “First you answer some questions for me and then, if I like the answers, maybe—just maybe—I’ll talk.”

  “Sure. Ask away. Twenty a song seem fair?”

  “Fuck you.”

  Enough sweet talk. “Okay, whatsit you wanna know?”

  “I want to know what the fuck is going on. Who are you working for?”

  “Raya’s sister.”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  “Yeah? What makes you think so?”

  “I’m asking the questions.”

  “And you have a real knack for it,” I say.

  “Look, if I’m being set up, I’m not going down alone. I’ll go to the cops. I’ll make a deal. This whole thing didn’t start with me and you know it.”

  “What whole thing?” Silence from her end. “Talk to me,” I say. “It sounds like you’re in over your head. Maybe I can help you.”

  “Yeah right,” she sneers right through the phone. “You don’t know the first goddamn thing about what’s going on.”

  “You show me yours, I’ll show you mine. Let’s help each other. If you’re in as deep as I think, you’re gonna hafta trust somebody. Might as well be me. Whaddya say?”

  “If you’re fucking with me, so help me—”

  “I’m not.”

  More silence. Then: “All right. All right, we’ll talk, but not over the phone.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because for all I know you could be recording this. Besides, I’m late for work. Come see me there. Late.”

  “How much will it cost me this time?”

  “Fuck you.”

  I smile into the dial tone.

  14

  When it gets late enough, I take the back way down to the uninspired parking garage that serves my building. It is mostly deserted by this hour of night, being as I’m the only twenty-four hours a day resident. Off-white lighting clings like soap scum to the walls, making the place look even dingier than it already is. The Benz purrs with pleasure as I start her up. As I go to reverse, I see a familiar-looking black Navigator glide up behind me on blade tires and block me in. Great. Just what I need.

  Leroy’s boy jumps out of the driver’s seat and comes rushing up, waving an equally familiar-looking Glock in my face with the hand that isn’t in a cast. “Out the car, muthafucka. Let’s go.”

  I get out and get a good look at him for the first time. I try to decide whether he’s bigger than he is ugly, or uglier than he is big. In the end I take ugly by a nose; a bent, disjointed one. Not helping matters any is the fact that his lips are cut and swollen and six of his front teeth are broken or missing altogether. Evidently he hasn’t had time to meet with a good goldsmith yet.

  “What you lookin’ at, bitch?” he asks, while we wait for Leroy to gather a pair of crutches together from the back of the truck and come join us.

  “That pretty smile of yours,” I say. “That natural or didja have work done?”

  He puts the butt of the gun to work trying to erase my smile. It does the trick. I take a knee. I spit blood. When I get up I see that Leroy has crutched over and joined us.

  “Look what the fuck you done did to me, mufucka,” Leroy says by way of greeting.

  “You ask me, you brought that on yourself.”

  “Oh I see—I axed to get shot, huh?”

  “I gave you a choice. You picked the limp.”

  Leroy grins. “You a dead mufucka an’ you don’t even know it. Belee dat.”

  “I do believe it,” I say. �
�Look, I’ve got some place to be right now, so how ’bout we continue this little reunion later, Leroy—”

  “Leh-roy.”

  “Whatever. Here’s your new choice: leave right now and keep sucking air, or stick around and quit cold-turkey.”

  “Naw, naw, you ain’t givin’ the mufuckin’ choices dis time, fool. Leh-roy be givin’ the choices. Belee dat. See—see first I gone have my boy shoot you in the leg, give your bitch-ass a chance to see how dat feel. Then, I give you yo’ choice if you want the next one in the mufuckin’ face, or the mufuckin’ chest.”

  “’Preciate that,” I say. “How ’bout the face? I’ve already taken two in the chest tonight.”

  “You think I’m mufuckin’ playin’ wit you, fool? You think dis here some kinda mufuckin’ joke?”

  “No. You’d have to have a sense of humor for that.”

  Leroy looks over at Ugly. I can smell the rage in his system. “Shoot him in da leg, dawg.”

  Figuring I’ve been shot enough for one night, I give Ugly the eye and say, “Point the gun at Leroy.”

  Ugly’s eyes ice over and he slowly pivots the gun so that it’s pointing past me at his boss. It’s fair to say that Leroy is more than a little flabbergasted by this development. Can’t say I blame him.

  “Aw no you ain’t. I know you ain’t pointin’ that mufuckin’ gun at me. You musta lost yo’ mind, fool. The fuck you be thinkin’?”

  “Last chance, Leroy. You can still limp away from this.”

  Leroy ignores me. He only has eyes for his traitorous pal. “You my bitch, bitch. I’m tellin’ you right the fuck now, you best get that gun outa my mufuckin’ face.”

  The gun wavers ever so slightly. Got to give it to Leroy, he wields a lot of control. Too bad for him it’s no match for my hypnotic gaze.

  I lean close to Ugly and whisper in one soup-bowl ear. I have to get up on tiptoes to do it. “Keep the gun on Leroy. Don’t let him move. Anything he tells you to do to me, you do to him. I’m gonna go move the truck. Nod if you understand.”

  Ugly nods. I head for the Navigator.

  “Where the fuck you think you be goin’, fool?” Leroy asks. When I don’t answer he turns back to Ugly. “I be tellin’ you for the last time. Get dat gun off me and shoot that mufucka in the leg!”

  The Glock fires with the Navigator’s engine. Together the clap of the gun and the rumble of the engine sound like summer thunder in the garage. I look out the passenger side window to see Leroy collapsed amid his crutches at the side of the Benz, a fresh bullet wound just above the knee in his one remaining good leg.

  I move the truck. When I get back to the Benz, Leroy is sitting up clutching his leg, in the middle of an angry tirade. Can’t say I blame him.

  “What the fuck? You mufuckin’ shot me, bitch! What the fuck you be thinkin’? Fuck!”

  His boy doesn’t answer on account of he is still under my control, but Leroy doesn’t know it. Ignoring all the bleeding and yelling, I climb into the Mercedes and start her up.

  “Mufucka’s gettin’ away, bitch. Shoot him. Shoot him right mufuckin’ n—”

  Blam! Leroy takes another bullet. In the shoulder this time. It drives him down hard on his back to the oil-stained floor like a tackle from a linebacker. It’s no more than he deserves, but I don’t feel good about it.

  “Fuuuuuuuck!”

  Much as I’d like to stick around and have a midnight snack, the gun was too loud. People will have heard. The cops will be coming.

  Time to go.

  I crank the window down so I can give Ugly one last instruction. “Help your friend,” I say. I figure it’s the least I can do.

  And the most.

  15

  I drive east to the Blue Veil. It’s been a long night, but I still intend to find out what Callie-Dean knows about all this, even if it means being less of a gentleman than I would prefer. But I’ll leave that up to her.

  When I get there, I locate my favorite mitt-faced waitress, who tells me that Dallas hasn’t shown up for her shift. No call. No nothing. With a bad feeling rolling around in my stomach like two greasy ten-pound bowling balls, I leave and drive to Callie-Dean’s house as fast as the Roadster will take me. I park on the street. The house is dark and sullen behind the chain-link. Not even a porch light burns tonight.

  I get out, walk up, try the door. It is unlocked. Not a good sign. I take my gun out and turn the knob and shoulder it open. It opens like a mouth; the darkness inside illuminated by my night-vision eyes.

  Everything looks exactly as I left it until I get to the bedroom. I smell her before I see her. Callie-Dean lies naked and lifeless atop the pink cotton-candy covers, her eyes staring into the nevermore. Blood and brains create a grisly Jackson Pollock on the headboard behind her. The nine-millimeter hole in her forehead looks like a peephole into hell.

  I look for the gun. I don’t find it. Because suicides can’t dispose of guns I rule that out as a possibility. It’s thinking like that that makes me so good at what I do. The girl was killed. The question is why? And by who?

  I nose around. I find her cell phone tucked beneath one blood-saturated pillow. I fool with the tiny goddamn buttons until I figure out how to get into her dialed call log. According to the log, the last call she ever made was the one to me.

  Swell. Now I’ve got trouble. It doesn’t take a genius to realize that once the cops discover her body, it’ll only be a matter of time before they check her call log and then stop by my place with their sneaky cop questions. I make a mental note to purge my place as soon as I get home. The last thing I need is for them to decide to search and find vials of blood linking me to Vin Prince or any of the others.

  There’s nothing else for me here. The blood still in Callie-Dean’s body will have gone bad as rancid milk by now and be just as useless to me. Damn shame. I pocket the phone, planning to dispose of it on the way home; no sense making it any easier for the cops to find me than it will already be. I close Callie-Dean’s accusatory eyes and leave her the way I left her the night before—except more dead.

  I smoke and drive. I ditch the cell in a rain gutter. My watch tells me it’s going on one-forty-five in the A.M. I’ve been so busy tonight I haven’t had any more time to try to figure out where Reesa lives.

  I head to the Tropicana. I get there too late. Closed. Looks like this lover boy is out of luck.

  I turn and head back along Melrose to the Benz when I see her trumpet player—a short, soft, bald egg of a guy—exit a side door and carry his case over to a dark sedan which sits in a side lot.

  I detour. I slip up vampire-quiet behind him, clap a cold hand on one round shoulder. He starts, turns toward me, raising the black trumpet case as if for protection.

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle ya,” I lie.

  “That’s all right, buddy. What can I do for ya?” His eyes are wary.

  “I’m a friend of Reesa’s. I’m supposed to meet her tonight, but I don’t have her address.” It’s no good. I sound like a stalker, even to me.

  “You crazy? I don’t know you. I’m not giving you her address.”

  “Okay, but just so we’re clear: you know it, you’re just not going to give it to me. That right?”

  “Yeah. That’s right.”

  Good enough. I move up close, throw an arm around him like we’re old friends just in case anyone’s looking, and jab my gun into the soft-boiled fat of his belly.

  “Any way my friend here could convince you to change your mind about that?” I ask, my eyes selling near-death experience for all they’re worth. “I mean, you don’t really want to die tonight, do ya, pal? Not over something as stupid as an address...”

  He sucks in a breath, pisses himself a little, jitters the address to me. A condo in Westwood. Wilshire Corridor. Upscale. She must be doing well to afford a place like that.

  I thank him and give him the gaze and tell him to kindly disremember the conversation. He assures me he will. I start to leave, but then—not sure exact
ly why—turn back and tell him to hand the trumpet over while he’s at it. He does it, easy as you please. I take it and walk away fast.

  It feels good under my arm after all these years.

  16

  I get to Reesa’s building a little before two-thirty. Twenty-three stories of pristine white stucco standing in wait to try its chances against the next big quake. I park at a metered spot up the street. I pull my kit from beneath the seat. I fix.

  While I drowse, I dreamily open the black case and take the trumpet out. She’s a knock-out. Her white polished brass gleams like a silk camisole in the streetlight. I hold her. I fiddle with her pearl-white buttons. I even put her to my mouth. We kiss, short and chaste, and then I put her back without playing a single note. Not on the first date. It’s too soon for that. She wouldn’t respect me in the morning if I did.

  I get out and go see Reesa up on the thirteenth floor.

  “It’s late—” she says when she opens the door. She has on a black silk kimono tonight that matches her mood.

  “I know. Sorry. Got a little busy with the case.”

  “You could’ve at least called.”

  “You’re right. You want me to go?”

  “I didn’t say that, but if I let you in you’re going to have to make it up to me.”

  “That right?”

  “Mmm-hmm. And it won’t be easy either. Could take all night.”

  “Well I’m a hard worker.”

  “You’d better be.” She grins now, dropping the act and throwing her arms around me. We kiss right there in the hall. It’s like the first time only more familiar. Hungrier. Better.

  I let her take me by the hand and pull me inside and shut the door. I look around. The place is dim and neat. Minimalist. Very L.A. feng shui. A low table sits in front of an expensive cherry-wood futon, a bonsai at its center. High-heeled shoes and assorted sneakers mingle on a reed mat just inside the door. Oriental dragon paintings cover the walls. A fat Buddha leers knowingly at me from beside the fireplace. Candle-lit paper lamps flicker light around the room. It reminds me of an opium dream. Reesa bends at the knee in the manner of a Japanese wife and removes first one of my shoes and then the other. She looks up at me as she places them on the reed mat next to hers.