Deadeye

by William C. Dietz

  But regardless of that, Popeye knew that the teenager would wake up hungry. Not for Cheerios, but for clavo, which she would proceed to shoot up. And it was his job to go get it. That required going into the world that lay beyond the black plastic. A place where, according to Honest Al Nuri, a pig bitch was looking for him. Well fuck her, Popeye thought to himself as he crawled off the mattress. I have some medicine for that disease.

  Popeye was careful to slip his feet into some flip-flops before beginning the journey to the bathroom. The floor was covered with pieces of cast-off clothing, drug paraphernalia, and rat droppings. They would move soon and leave the garbage behind.

  Popeye flipped the lights on as he entered the bathroom and turned to examine himself in the mirror. His eyes were red, there were open sores on his cheeks, and when he opened his mouth, it was like looking into a black hole. Like so many meth addicts, Popeye had a condition known as “meth mouth.” About a third of his teeth were missing, and the rest were in bad condition. According to the dentist he’d seen the year before, the problems were the result of dry mouth, poor oral hygiene, and the consumption of too many carbonated beverages. Fuck him, Popeye thought to himself as he lit his pipe and took a seat on the throne.

  The fatigue seemed to melt away as the vapor entered Popeye’s lungs. Then his thoughts began to quicken. Another fucking mutant was in town. A subhuman piece of shit who wanted to buy parts, take them into the red zone, and sell them to freaks. So the deal was a two-fer . . . Meaning a chance to whack a mutie and score some scratch. Gold, preferably, so he could buy tweak at a discount. That would make Gina happy, and everything would be jam. Popeye laughed. Life was good.

  After inhaling his breakfast and donning a new set of dirty clothes, Popeye placed a series of phone calls. Then he made his way out into the filthy hallway and turned to lock the door behind him. After descending three flights of stairs, Popeye paused to peer out through a filthy window. Everything appeared to be okay, so he readied the long-barreled pistol and stepped out through the door. Nobody shot him. And that was a good thing. The cool morning air was only slightly tainted by the stink associated with a nearby Dumpster.

  After restoring the pistol to its shoulder holster, Popeye placed a pair of wraparound shades over his eyes as he crossed the parking lot. It was home to three beaters and a couple of bikes. But the star of the show was crouched in one of the semiprotected end slots. Stella had been a ’36 Caddy once. Well, most of her had, back before a previous owner wrecked her.

  Then an enterprising fabricante married the original vehicle to a ’34 Buick and threw in some personal touches as well. The result was the sleek, low-riding bitch that Popeye called Stella. She was, along with Gina, everything that he had in the world and therefore precious to him. That was why the lady was dressed in gray. Not because he couldn’t come up with enough scratch for some shine—but because a fancy paint job was bound to attract trouble.

  While at rest, Stella’s curvaceous body came down over her expensive wheels to touch the ground. Not only was that a cool look—it made Stella very difficult to steal. Popeye removed a remote from his pocket and thumbed a button.

  Hydraulics whined as the car rose, a spoiler appeared, and the lights blinked. Popeye never got tired of slipping in behind Stella’s steering wheel, turning the key, and hearing the huge V-8 rumble into life. Feeding the bitch was almost as expensive as “feeding” Gina but worth every penny. And, thanks to California’s offshore oil wells, the citizens of Pacifica would be using internal combustion engines for a long time to come.

  After making his way onto I-5, Popeye followed the freeway north to Glendale and the LA Zoo. The instructions to the mutie were simple. She was to meet him out front of the main gate at twelve noon. He wasn’t interested in any of that nighttime shit, when it was impossible to see who or what was hiding in the bushes.

  Then, once he was close enough, Popeye would cap the freak and take her scratch. With that accomplished, it would be back to the city, score some crank, and party with Gina. While he drove, Popeye was listening to a premix of the single his band was going to release in a week or so. It was a solid rap titled “Mutant Massacre.” He was chanting the lyrics as he left the freeway and made his way onto Zoo Drive. Except that it wasn’t a zoo anymore and hadn’t been since 2039, when some of the animals contracted the plague, word got out, and a mob took the place apart. Elephants, zebras, you name it. The cits killed everything, including seven staff members. And that, to Popeye’s way of thinking, was the best way to deal with mutants.

  After pulling onto the outer edge of a vast parking lot, Popeye stopped and put Stella in PARK. Then he opened the door and got out. It was necessary to remove the sunglasses in order to use the binoculars. As Popeye panned from left to right, he saw a burned-out car, a pile of rubble from some construction site, and an old travel trailer. It was riddled with bullet holes and had clearly been used for target practice. A momentary breeze came up and sent pieces of litter skittering across the broken concrete before dying away.

  Then, as Popeye’s gaze slid over a bloated dog carcass, there was a hint of movement. He brought the binoculars back a hair and adjusted the focus. The main entrance appeared. And there, framed inside of it, was a figure dressed in black. Fabric billowed as the breeze came up again, and Popeye knew he was looking at a burqa-clad female. What did she have? Three arms? Anything could be hidden under the baggie. He glanced at his watch. It was 11:58. The freak was right on time.

  But, conscious of the fact that there was more territory to examine, Popeye continued the scan. Once that effort was complete, he turned his attention to the sky. The LAPD had drones. Everyone knew that. But when Popeye looked up, all he could see were a pair of white claw marks on the otherwise blue sky. Fighters probably—on patrol.

  Satisfied that everything was as it should be, Popeye got into Stella and sent a text message. The reply came quickly. So Popeye put Stella in gear and guided her between various obstacles until he was about a hundred feet away from the woman in the black burqa. Then he got out, went to the trunk, and removed a large duffel bag. It was loaded with rocks to give it heft and chunks of Styrofoam to bulk it out. With the Colt in one hand and the bag in the other, Popeye began to walk.

  * * *

  Lee’s vision was limited to the horizontal eye slit. But she could still see quite a bit, however, including the way the air shimmered over the hot concrete and Popeye’s emaciated figure as he came toward her. He was holding a long-barreled pistol down along his right leg. That ran counter to the ostensibly friendly manner in which the criminal had approached Mr. and Mrs. Fuentes. It looked as if Popeye had grown more cautious and less inclined to pretend.

  Lee’s line of reasoning was interrupted by the loud rumble of engines as three customized motorcycles entered the parking lot from different directions and started to converge on her. That, too, was different from Popeye’s previous MO and a reason for concern. “Uh-oh,” a male voice said in her ear. “Cherko brought backup.”

  Mick Ferris was in charge of the six-person SWAT team that was deployed on the roof of the building behind Lee. Their positions had been carefully chosen and were well camouflaged. Initially, Lee had assumed that the snipers would be largely superfluous. Now she was glad to have them. “So it would seem,” she said, as her heart began to pound. “Wait for me to identify myself—then go with the flow.”

  * * *

  Lee had a reputation as a loner and a bitch. But Ferris had to give the detective credit. He could see her through the telescopic sight on his .308 caliber Remington 700P rifle. And as the motorcycles came to a stop, and the riders got off, Lee stood her ground. Of course, that was what one would expect of a cop who had smoked nine bad guys in a single gun battle. Still, standing there all alone took some major ovaries. He whispered into his mike. “You heard her . . . From the left . . . Tanaka, Hoover, myself, and Ramirez. Oko will cover our six—and Miller ha
s the overlook. Stay sharp.”

  * * *

  Popeye came to a stop. The fact that she was still there came as a surprise. He had expected her to run. Then the other band members would run her down. The breeze ruffled the burqa and the duffel produced a puff of dust as it hit the ground. “You want parts, and I have parts,” Popeye said. His crew were flanking him by then. Skitch and Kat stood to his right, with Zeeb on the left. It was the same lineup they used onstage.

  Lee pushed her badge out through a slit in the fabric. “LAPD! Drop your weapons! You are under arrest!”

  * * *

  Light reflected off the stainless-steel Colt as it came up. But the process was still under way when Ferris put a bullet into Popeye’s skull. Maybe the bastard was wearing armor and maybe he wasn’t. It paid to be careful. There was a sudden spray of blood as the bullet exited through the back of Popeye’s skull. His body hit the pavement and lay with arms spread.

  The woman to Lee’s left was dressed in leathers and sporting a pink crew cut. She was armed with a sawed-off shotgun which discharged into the air as a third eye appeared between the two she already had.

  Then it was over as the others dropped their weapons, raised their hands, and were ordered to lie facedown on the ground. Lee kept them covered while members of the SWAT team came to join her. Then it was time to remove the baggie as Ferris appeared at her side. “Two scumbags down and a quarter million left to go,” he said.

  “That’s a lot.”

  Ferris nodded. “There’s a lot of Popeyes out there.”

  “Yes,” Lee agreed as she looked down at the body. “But this is the only one that Mrs. Fuentes cares about.”

  FOUR

  LEE WAS STARING at a computer screen in a small, nearly featureless room at the Los Angeles Times building. It was Sunday, and the newspaper’s so-called morgue was closed. But after plying the weekend crew with coffee and doughnuts, Lee had been allowed to use the facility anyway.

  Material from the last few years was available online. But the older stuff, meaning stories written immediately after the onset of the plague, could only be accessed via terminals in the morgue. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much of it. Many of the reporters were terminally ill as they wrote about besieged hospitals, desperate mobs, and acts of unexpected kindness. As a result, there were days when the paper was only a few pages long and a period of weeks during which nothing was published at all.

  Tears streamed down Lee’s cheeks as she skimmed page after page. The plague and its effects on LA was an enormous story, so she knew the chances of finding some mention of Alma Kimble were slim, but the photo of the girl standing between the two policemen continued to haunt her. And like any detective, Lee was used to following up on leads no matter how tenuous they might be.

  So Lee continued to read, looking for any mention of the mysterious woman. And finally, after an hour and a half of sifting through old editions of the paper, she hit pay dirt. It wasn’t as complete as she’d hoped for—but the brief obituary was better than nothing. It appeared in a special edition of the paper called The People We Lost and had clearly been written by a relative. “Alma Kimble, age 22. Alma got sick so she shot herself rather than run the risk of becoming a mutant or dying of the plague. May God forgive and keep her.”

  Lee was still in the process of absorbing that when her phone rang. She checked the screen and saw the name, “Roscoe McGinty.” One of the two men pictured with Alma shortly before her death. Was that a matter of coincidence? Or a cosmic echo? The phone rang again. Lee thumbed the screen. “Yes, sir.”

  “Sorry to bother you on a day off,” McGinty said, “but I need your help—and I’d like to brief you before we meet with the victim’s family.”

  “Okay,” Lee responded. “Where would you like to meet?”

  “I’m in Beverly Hills,” McGinty replied. “At a restaurant called Maximo’s.”

  Lee was about to ask “What victim?” when the line went dead. So all she could do was thank the Sunday editor, return to the ground floor, and go out to where her motorcycle was parked. It was a replica of a 2002 Harley Davidson Road King—Police Edition. Though not the real deal, it had all of the original bike’s distinctive features, including the huge headlamp, the teardrop-shaped gas tank, and the simple saddle-type seat. A pair of metal panniers completed the look. There was no windscreen; nor did Lee want one. The bubble-shaped visor attached to her helmet was enough protection.

  The bike started up at the touch of a button, produced the throaty roar that Lee loved so much, and pulled away from the curb. Traffic was heavy, but based on the stories her father liked to tell, it was nothing compared to the old days. Back before half the population died.

  The Hollywood Freeway took Lee to the Silver Lake Boulevard off-ramp, and it wasn’t long before that morphed into Beverly Boulevard. Maximo’s was half a mile to the west.

  Lee spotted the restaurant’s sign, slowed, and turned into a pristine driveway that led past the white stucco building to the lot in back. A valet came out to greet her. He was dressed in a red bolero-style jacket and black trousers. Lee braked, toed the bike into neutral, and removed the helmet. “I’ll park it myself. Where should I put it?”

  The valet had been expecting to see a man, and his expression changed subtly. “Yes, ma’am. Slot five is available.”

  Lee nodded, put the Harley in gear, and rode it over to a slot that was sandwiched between a low-slung red sports car and a black limo. She’d never been to Maximo’s, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out that the restaurant was popular with the city’s movers and shakers.

  She left the helmet sitting on top of the gas tank and crossed the lot to a door sheltered by a red awning. Once she was inside, a woman in a black cocktail dress came forward to greet her. There was a frown on her face. “Yes? Are you looking for work? The manager will be in tomorrow.”

  That was when Lee remembered the way she was dressed. The outfit consisted of a waist-length leather jacket, a tee shirt, ripped jeans, and her combat boots. Not the sort of ensemble the staff and customers were used to seeing. “No,” Lee replied. “I’m employed. Has Deputy Chief McGinty arrived? He asked me to meet him here.”

  The frown was magically transformed into a smile. “Of course! You’re Detective Lee . . . Please follow me.”

  Lee followed the hostess into a large dining room. The tables were covered with white linen and set with gleaming silverware. An elaborate buffet occupied most of one wall, and it appeared that Sunday brunch was well under way.

  As Lee followed the hostess between two rows of tables, she got the impression that the restaurant’s well-dressed clientele had come for more than the food. They were there to see and to be seen. Heads swiveled, and there was a sudden buzz of conversation as Lee approached the table where McGinty was seated.

  * * *

  McGinty saw heads turn as Lee entered the room. Part of that had to do with the way she was dressed. She looked like a biker babe—but a babe with a difference. Lee’s hard-edged charisma had very little to do with her looks. It came from somewhere deep inside. So why did he dislike her? No, it wasn’t dislike so much as a feeling of discomfort that stemmed from the fact that she was Frank’s daughter. That wasn’t fair, of course, but what was.

  * * *

  Lee saw that McGinty was looking at her. He was dressed in a blue blazer, an open-collared dress shirt, and khaki slacks. Somehow, Lee got the feeling that her boss was no stranger to the restaurant or to the people who frequented the place. That was something of a revelation since the possibility that McGinty had an existence separate from the LAPD hadn’t occurred to her. McGinty stood. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

  All of Lee’s internal alarms went off. McGinty was being nice. Why?

  “Let’s order something to eat,” McGinty suggested. “Then we can talk.”

  Lee eyed the menu, saw the pr
ices, and hoped McGinty was going to pick up the tab. She took a pass on the fifty-dollar brunch and ordered an open-faced crab melt for thirty bucks. Crab and cheese on a toasted muffin . . . What could go wrong?

  All of the waiters were dressed head to toe in gray hazmat suits and spit masks. Not because they were contagious. Far from it. But as a way to assure customers that every possible measure had been taken to protect their safety. McGinty ignored the buffet in favor of orange-scented red beet risotto, with blackberries, mascarpone, and juniper balsamic vinegar. “Okay,” he said, once the waiter had left. “Are you familiar with the Church of Human Purity?”

  Lee frowned. “I’ve seen the commercials . . . But that’s it.”

  “Well, as the name might suggest, the church is focused on the concept of purity, both spiritual and physical.”

  Lee eyed him across the table. “So mutants need not apply?”

  McGinty made a face. “Exactly. According to the church’s founder, a man named Bishop Screed, the plague was sent by God to cleanse the planet of evil.”

  “So the good people lived?” Lee inquired cynically. “And the bad people died? Including millions of children?”

  “I am not a member of the church,” McGinty said, “but yes. That’s my understanding.”

  “So Bishop Screed would see a scumbag like Popeye as a good person?”

  “Cherko wasn’t around at the time of what Screed calls the cleansing. But it’s my understanding that the bishop sees the plague as a fresh start. That doesn’t mean people will choose good over evil.”

  Having just finished reading dozens of accounts, Lee knew that millions of good people had died during the plague, and she spoke without thinking. “What about Alma Kimble? Was she evil?”