by Ivan Infante
Downstairs in the garage, the big white clock hanging on the wall said three. Mike stared up at it. Moses was nowhere to be found. He must have been off sleeping. Mike didn’t feel like dealing with questions so he didn’t wake the kid. He decided to find transportation on his own. He jogged out of the garage and prowled up Wilshire Boulevard searching for a car.
He didn’t have to go very far. A Ford parked off by itself across from the park caught his eye. Mike strolled up to the driver’s side and leaned in the window. The keys hung from the ignition. Mike opened the door.
“Hey! What the hell’re ya doin’?” A scrawny hayseed in threadbare blue-jean overalls stepped out of the shadows on the other side of the car. He must’ve been sleeping one off under a tree near the sidewalk. He held a half empty whiskey bottle in a menacing grip.
“I’m taking this car.” Mike opened the door.
“You ain’t takin’ shit.” The kid rushed him.
Mike stood his ground. The hayseed swung the bottle in an arc that took a little too long to get there. Mike ducked under it. The kid lost his balance and fell on the ground. The bottle smashed on the pavement. When the kid got up, he used the broken bottle like a knife and slashed at Mike. He got a piece of the new jacket. The thin fabric tore easily.
Mike lost his temper. He lunged for the kid and grabbed him by the wrist that held the weapon. Mike squeezed hard. The kid yelped and dropped the bottle. It shattered into pieces on the pavement. Mike punched the kid in the stomach and the kid doubled over and gasped for breath.
Mike didn’t let up. He grabbed the kid by the neck and flung him face down on the pavement. The kid hit hard and sprawled out. He didn’t move. Mike coulda let it go, but he didn’t. Instead he kneeled down on top of the kid and pressed hard with his knee. He felt the kid’s ribcage give a little. The kid wheezed, gasped and grunted. He struggled to escape, but Mike had him by the hair on the back of his head. He slammed the kid’s face into the pavement over and over, each time harder than the last. By the time Mike’s anger ran its course, he was out of breath and the bones in the kids face were crushed flat.
Mike rolled the kid over and went through his pockets. He found his wallet, but it was empty. In another pocket, the kid had a fresh pack of smokes. They were probably the last thing he’d bought. Mike got up, stood over the farm boy and lit one. They were Camels. They were good cigarettes. Mike took a few more puffs, then he got behind the wheel of the Ford and drove away.
Mike drove the stolen Ford at an even speed to The Sunset Room. The bar was perched on Sunset Boulevard at the base of the Hollywood Hills. The name was unoriginal.
There was no traffic on the streets as he headed uphill. Mike drove steady. He didn’t put too much pressure on the gas or the brake. At the top of Crescent Heights, he turned left onto Sunset and cruised down the empty boulevard. He passed the Sunset Room. It was on his left. It was four in the morning.
Mike drove past the club a couple of times. The Zephyr was nowhere in sight. After one more pass, Mike turned off Sunset onto a steep narrow street a short distance to the east. It ran uphill and dead-ended. Mike u-turned at the back of the street and parked the Ford facing Sunset.
He got out and walked down to the boulevard. He stopped on the corner and stared across at the lights of the city. They were spread out below him like a carpet. He stared until his vision blurred and he got dizzy.
His hands dropped into his jacket pockets. He ran his fingers over the Savage and the extra clips. His head felt better. When he was done checking his weapon and ammo, he straightened his tie and lit another Camel. He smoked as he headed down the north side of Sunset toward the club.
When he got to the Sunset Room, he stayed in the shadows across the street and looked the place over. It almost seemed classy. Benny had told him that the high rollers played downtown or in places on Wilshire, but the boulevard was slowly coming up. Its upstart clubs had more extravagant games. They were also outside the city limits and under the jurisdiction of the sheriff. He was a bigger supporter of the gaming industry than the people that ran Los Angeles.
The traffic on Sunset was thin, but picking up. Dawn was coming. There was a drunk on the sidewalk in front of the club. Mike waited for him to wander. When the coast was clear, Mike crossed the street. There were no doormen or valets. They were long gone. A few yards down the street, a long limo idled. The chauffeur behind the wheel gave Mike a nasty stare.
After a second, a couple stumbled out of the bushes toward the limo. They clambered over each other and into the backseat, but they weren’t capable of shutting the door. The chauffeur with the angry stare had to get out and come around to the curbside and shut it for them. He gave Mike another dirty look as he got back behind the wheel and drove away. Mike was alone on Sunset. He picked up his pace.
He went to the front door, but it was locked. Just as he stepped back and got ready to kick it, a truck and a car passed by on Sunset. Mike reconsidered. He headed to a narrow alley alongside the building to look for another way in.
The Sunset Room was built haphazardly down the side of the hill. The incline was steep. Mike was on the western side making his way down. The place was bigger than it looked from the street. It was three stories tall and had a large open-air patio on top. Mike figured there would be easy access to the inside from the patio, so he looked around for a way to climb up. He gave up after a while. He couldn’t find a handhold.
Mike made his way down to the alley behind the Sunset Room. When he got to the end of the building, he moved slower. He pressed up against the wall and peeked around the corner.
Two guys stood in the trash-strewn alley. The Zephyr was parked across from them, opposite the back door. One of the guys wore kitchen whites. He carried a metal garbage. He held it out in front of himself by the handles. He shuffled like a crab and made the garbage can look heavy.
In the doorway behind him, a tall black-haired man in a white shirt, red tie, and grey slacks enjoyed a cigarette. The tall man’s sleeves were rolled-up and his pants wrinkled. He laughed at the kitchen worker’s struggle with the trashcan, but the guy didn’t seem to mind, maybe because the tall man did his fair share.
The tall man had a loud voice. “Let’s go. We wanna lock up and get out of here.”
The kitchen worker ignored him. In fact, he seemed to move slower in response to the patter. Eventually, he put the trash can down at the end of an uneven row of similar cans, but he didn’t head back inside right away. Instead, he stopped and wiped his hands on his pants. The tall man tapped his foot as he waited in the doorway. Eventually, the worker crossed the alley and went in. The tall man threw his cigarette away and slammed the door behind them.
Mike could hear the lock turn from where he hid against the side of the building. After a few seconds, Mike crept around the corner and went to the door and examined the lock closely. He could pick it. He could get in this way.
Mike kept going past the door along the back of the building. He found a window and ducked down below it. He looked at the bars. They were loose. He could probably pull them away from the flimsy window frame and get in this way too, but he preferred the door. He kept going to the end of the building and peeked around the corner. This side of the building was out in the open, brightly lit, and facing an empty lot. The words SUNSET ROOM were painted on the side of it in the same cursive as on the matchbook. There was no way in on this side.
Mike walked away from the building and back to his car. He slid behind the wheel and drove back around to the alley. He parked behind the Zephyr and in front of the row of dented metal trash cans. He sat behind the wheel and smoked another Camel down to a nub. When he was done, he tossed it out the window and got out of the car. He went to work.
He squatted down next to the door, put his ear to it, and listened. He didn’t hear any noise coming from inside. He heard voices drifting down from the patio above him, but he couldn’t make out the words. He knew one of those voices would eventually look down an
d see him hulking by the back door. It was time to go in.
He drew the knife from the scabbard in his belt and jammed it into the door between the lock and the frame. He had the knife in place for no more than half a second when the door opened on its own.
The kitchen worker stood and stared down at Mike. He hesitated for a split second before he tried to slam the door. He moved fast for someone taken by surprise, but Mike moved faster. He sprang up from his crouch and used the strength of his legs to power the knife into the base of the guy’s jaw. The guy’s jaw snapped shut and he bit off his tongue. Mike couldn’t get the knife out, it was stuck in the palate somewhere. Blood poured out of the worker’s mouth and he started to make a desperate squealing noise. It was loud enough to be heard inside, so Mike grabbed him by the collar and pulled him out the door. He threw the man to the ground and pounced on his back. He grabbed the guy’s head with both hands, and snapped his neck. The loud crack of his bones was the last noise the guy ever heard.
Mike jumped to his feet and headed back to the doorway. He stepped inside and listened. He didn’t hear a thing. It was too quiet, like everyone inside was holding their breathe.
A yell broke the silence. “There’s someone at the back door. Tony!” The voice came from the kitchen. It sounded close.
Mike flattened himself against the wall. He was at the end of a narrow hallway painted dark red. The floor was concrete and well worn. There were two doors opposite each other about ten feet in front of him. Mike assumed one was the kitchen. He could hear a clatter of pans as someone made their way toward him.
At the end of the hallway, Mike saw a staircase that led up into the club. He thought about making a run for it. He didn’t. He pressed himself close to the wall and drew the Savage. The automatic felt like an extension of his hand. He loved that gun and relished every chance he had to use it.
Mike switched to the other side of the hall. He wanted a better shot at the kitchen doorway. He moved just in time. The voice from the kitchen stuck his head out into the hall to take a look. Mike shot him in the brain and the guy dropped like a sack of rocks. There wasn’t much splatter. The bullet must have stayed in him.
Mike moved quickly now. The gunshot would be heard upstairs and trouble would be coming. He kept close to the wall and moved sideways along it all the way to the kitchen doorway. When he got there, Mike rushed through it without even ducking. He stayed steady. He had done this before and he knew most other people hadn’t.
As soon as he stepped into the kitchen, he saw that several bus boys were on the floor face down. The tall guy with black hair sprang up from a hiding place between the counter and the stove. He fired and missed wide despite the short distance and the clear line of sight.
Mike shot him twice, walking forward after each pull of the trigger. The tall man dropped. Mike stood over him and put one more in his brain to be sure. Then he kneeled down, took the man’s gun and checked it. It was a simple .38, but it had four good bullets in it.
“You boys better clear out.” Mike said in a clear even tone. The bus boys were smart and, given the chance, they ran for it. Mike heard someone yelling after them.
“Hey, what’s goin’ on? Where you boys goin’?” The voice sounded like it came from the stairs. The only answer was the slamming of the back door.
Mike gripped a gun in each hand and stepped out of the kitchen. A couple of gunmen were headed down the stairs at the other end of the hall. Mike fired twice and missed. The men scrambled back upstairs and took cover. That bought him some time.
Mike stepped across the hall and through the doorway across from the kitchen. This room was a combination storage area and dressing room. Half of the space was full of boxes and kitchen supplies. A row of well lit make-up stations with mirrors and lockers for costumes took up the rest of the space. At the far end of the room, there was a door with a star on it. Mike figured it for the headliner’s dressing room and a dead end.
He headed back to the door and stuck his head out. Mike saw three pairs of black leather shoes on the stairs. A couple of bullets came at him. They missed. The gunmen were trying to shoot down the hall without going too far down the staircase. Only their legs were visible until they crouched to fire at him.
Mike dropped to his knees and aimed around the edge of the door at their ankles. He fired three times. The first two missed, but the third connected and a gunman tumbled down the stairs clutching his ankle. Mike slapped a second clip into the Savage and took note of the three bullets left in the revolver. The guy lying in the hall screamed for help. Mike could hear footsteps above him.
Mike moved decisively. He stepped out into the hall crouching low so he could shoot up the stairs. He fired the last three bullets out of the revolver. The black shoes and white socks reminded him of piano keys. They moved up and down the stairs every time he fired. The sound echoed loud off the walls of the narrow hall. Mike didn’t hit anyone, but the gunmen backed up the stairs as he got closer. The wounded guy at the base of the stairs had lost his weapon as he tumbled. It was a distance away from him. When he saw Mike, he crawled toward it and stretched for it.
Mike got there first and picked up the gun. Then he grabbed the gunman by the scruff of the neck and pulled him away from the stairs. The man struggled so Mike hit him a couple of times in the head. The other gunmen regained their composure and started downstairs again. They unleashed a barrage of gunfire as they came. The bullets sparked off the concrete floor and chipped wood off the walls.
Mike dragged the gunman into the kitchen and leaned him against the wall. He was fading fast so Mike punched him in his leg. The pain shocked the gunman back into consciousness.
“Damn, my leg, I gotta bullet in there.” He yelled.
Mike checked out the injury. “No, it went through.”
“So, are you gonna shoot me or what?” The gunman calmed down and spoke clearly. Mike could tell he was a professional.
“Where is she?” Mike had his hand poised above the leg. He was ready to send some pain in behind the question.
“You don’t need to threaten. She’s upstairs.” The gunman spoke fast.
“That was easy.” Mike moved his hand away from the leg.
“Yeah, well, I thought this whole thing was a mistake from the beginning.” The gunman shrugged out the rest of his answer. “Besides, there’s five guys up there. You go upstairs to get her, you won’t have a chance.
“I disagree.” Mike stood up.
“What’re you, crazy?” The gunman smiled and tried to brace himself so he wouldn’t slide down the wall. He winced when he moved.
“Maybe.” Mike checked his weapons. He had a couple of clips left for the Savage and a few in the wounded man’s revolver. It probably wasn’t enough. He would have to pick up weapons as he went. He headed for the doorway, ducked low, and peered around the edge.
A sharp pain in his leg drew him back into the room. The wounded gunman had a knife deep in Mike’s right thigh. Mike shot him in the chest. The gunman died with a smile on his face. Mike shot it off.
Mike fell against the wall and pulled out the knife. He wiped it on his shirt and dropped into his jacket pocket. He checked the wound. Blood flowed freely from his leg. The grinning bastard had stuck him good. Mike stared at the blood spreading out in a blot and wondered if this was it. He shrugged it off. He knew he had it coming. What difference did it make if it came tonight?
Mike pulled himself together. He tore a piece off the dead man’s jacket and wrapped it around his leg. He tied the make-shift bandage tightly and headed back out into the hall. He came face to face with another gunman. The man had snuck down the stairs quietly. Mike had to give him credit. The gunman stopped in his tracks when he saw Mike. He was halfway between the bottom of the stairs and the door to the storeroom. His face was a clenched mask of bitterness and fear. Mike knew that look. Someone had bossed this guy down the stairs and he wasn’t happy about it. They raised their guns to fire. Mike was faster and a bullet fr
om the .38 caught the gunman in the forehead and knocked him backward. He hit the floor stretched out like plank.
Mike limped forward. He picked up the gunman’s revolver. A quick check told him four more bullets. He dropped the Savage into his pocket and gripped the new gun in his right hand. He’d use it and save the Savage for the finale.
It was quieter now. No more shouts came down the stairs. Mike only heard footsteps scurrying around above him. The men that were left were waiting upstairs. Mike didn’t make them wait for long. He used the wall on his left as support and slid up the stairs with his back to it. Most people were right handed. Taking cover on the left meant he’d have a good shot at anyone sticking their head around the corner to aim down the stairs. Sure enough, a gunman peaked around the corner to get a clear shot. Mike shot him in the foot and the gunman tumbled out of his hiding place. As he rolled down the stairs, Mike emptied the .38 into him. Then he tossed the .38 and drew his Savage.
Mike reached the top of the stairs. The main entrance was right in front of him. It had been locked with a chain. Behind him, a banister divided the stairwell from the rest of the room. Mike peered over it and scanned the floor. It was one large room with a bandstand in one corner and windows overlooking the city at the back. A raised seating area with round tables and flimsy chairs ran along both sides of the room. A worn yellow wood dance floor took up the rest of the space.
Mike didn’t see anyone or any place a person could hide. There were stairs to the third floor restaurant and the patio in the right corner of the big room. He could hear several gunman running about above him. It sounded like a stampede of leather loafers. There could be as many as four up there.
He wondered if the girl was even here and that made him smile. If she wasn’t, he was doing a whole lot of murders for nothing. He took another glance around the room. Something caught his eye. There was a dumbwaiter built into the wall in the corner.
