by Ivan Infante
Mike heard two car doors slam outside. 2 guys. Good odds.
The doctor continued. “And I might be a drunk, but I still have my ethics.” The doctor stirred the eggs.
Mike struggled out of the chair. He limped over to where the shotgun leaned against the wall and picked it up. “You got more shells for this?”
“By the door.” The doctor motioned over his shoulder with the spatula.
Mike turned as fast as he could. There were several shells in a wooden bowl on a low table. Mike limped over, picked them up and shoved them in his pocket. He leaned against the wall, cracked open the door, and pointed the shotgun out. His timing was perfect.
A gunman was right there. Mike fired. The man flew backward off the stairs and slammed into the hillside. He rolled down under the house. Mike shut the door and reloaded the shotgun. Then he opened the door again and limped outside.
Mike stood on the landing. He didn’t see anyone. He took a step toward the stairs and bullets ripped through the slat wood floor. Splinters and dust blew up into Mike’s face. He closed his eyes, dropped to his knees, and shoved the shotgun between the slats. He fired both barrels without looking and everything got quiet. When the powder cleared, Mike could see down through the broken slats.
A gunman lay on the muddy ground under the stairs. He was badly wounded. He had dropped his gun when he was shot and it glistened in the nearby mud. He rolled onto his belly and crawled toward it. Mike didn’t take his eyes off him. He loaded the shotgun by feel and snapped it shut. He poked the barrel through the floor and fired again. The blast tore the man in half.
Mike pulled himself up using the door knob and limped back inside. He used the shotgun as a crutch. With effort, he sat back down at the table. The Doc finished cooking breakfast and brought the skillet over to the table. He unloaded the food onto their plates and sat down. They ate in silence.
“You gotta shovel?” Mike pushed his plate away.
The old man nodded and stood up. He walked to a closet and took out an old beat-up shovel. At some point, the tool had broken and the blade had been reconnected by a rusty wire wrapped round and round the handle. The old man offered the shovel to Mike. Mike didn’t take it.
“I don’t think I’m in shape for digging.” Mike smiled. “Leg.” He pointed at the wound with his thumb.
The doctor nodded in agreement and sighed, then he slung the shovel over his shoulder and made his way to the door. He stopped with his hand on the knob and turned back to Mike. “You could help drag the bodies?”
“No.” Mike answered.
The doctor sighed again, louder this time, then walked out.
Mike yelled after him. “I’m gonna want their keys and wallets.” The old man did not respond.
Mike sat at the table drinking coffee and examining his bandage for a while. The doctor hadn’t done such a bad job after all. The dressing held well. Mike took another sip from his cup. The coffee had gone cold. Mike put it down and struggled to his feet. He used the shotgun as a crutch. At the front door, he took the shells from his pocket. He leaned against the door frame, snapped open the gun and loaded it.
Outside, the sun hovered high and bright. It had to be around noon. There were probably only a couple of hours a day when the light made it down to the bottom of the canyon. Unfortunately, this was one of them. Mike squinted into the glare. When his eyes adjusted, he started down the stairs. It was slow going. When he got to the bottom, he looked around for the doctor. He didn’t see him, but he could hear the sound of digging at the back of the house.
He trudged uphill in the mud under the house. His leg barely managed it. It took him a lot of effort to get to the doctor and, when he got there, he was beat. He had to lean against one of the piers that held up the house. The doctor stopped digging. So far, he had done a terrible job. The graves were going to be shallow.
“You gonna shoot me too? You want me to go ahead and dig another one?” The old man leaned on the shovel as he spoke and he kept his eyes on the shotgun.
Mike kept his eyes on the shovel. “You did a bad job on my leg. I’m gonna have a hard enough time just driving. Don’t think I could deal with three bodies on my own.” Mike held out his hand, palm up. “Gimme the keys.” The old man took a set of keys from his pocket. He held them out for Mike to come get.
“Toss them.” Mike wasn’t going to step into the range of that shovel.
The Doc tossed them and they landed in the mud at Mike’s feet. Mike motioned with his fingers that he wanted more. The doctor hesitated for a second, but Mike didn’t waiver. Finally, the old man sighed and took the wallets out of his jacket. He tossed those and they landed in the mud next to the keys. Mike didn’t lean down to get them. They looked light from where he was standing, so Mike put his palm back out and motioned that he wanted more. The doctor hesitated for a second, then pulled a wad of bills out of his pocket. He held them out, but didn’t toss them.
Mike kneeled down slowly and kept the shotgun on the doctor as he picked up the keys and the wallets. He shoved them into his left pocket, then motioned for the doctor to throw the shovel to the side. The old man rolled his eyes.
“For crying out loud, I’m not gonna hit you with the shovel.” The doctor didn’t toss the tool aside.
Mike smiled, stepped in close and took the money.
“You gonna pay me for the leg?” The Doc knew the answer.
“What are you gonna tell them?” Mike punctuated his question with a poke of the barrel in the old man’s direction.
“Nothing. She knocked me out, and when I came to, you were gone.”
“And the bodies?” Mike asked.
“If they find’em, it’ll be news to me.” Doc twisted his face into a mask of confusion. He played feeble perfectly.
“Well then Doc, maybe I’ll pay you next time.” Mike shoved the money in his pocket and walked backwards slowly. He kept the shotgun at the ready.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
As Mike maneuvered downhill away from the Doc, his energy began returning. The old man’s breakfast sat comfortably in his stomach and, by the time he got out from below the house, he moved a little faster. The gunmen had driven up in a small black Ford. Mike hurried to the back of it. He put the shotgun on the rumble seat and shut it. Then he gingerly lowered himself behind the wheel. His right leg hurt like hell, but he had the strength to manage the pedals and the pain would keep him alert.
Once he turned the car around and headed downhill out of the canyon, he didn’t have to shift gears and driving got easier. He made good time. He left the car a block off Wilshire between the Ashton and the park. When he got out of the car, there was blood on the seat. It wasn’t much. The bandage had held.
Mike left the car keys on the front seat in plain sight, opened the rumble seat, and took out the shotgun. He hid it under his coat and crossed the street from the park to the building. He barely made it to the garage across from the back entrance before his leg gave out. He stopped and leaned against the wall to gather himself. He glanced around the place looking for Moses, but he didn’t see him anywhere.
“Moses!” The name dry-cracked out of Mike’s throat. He sounded weak. He listened for a response. There wasn’t one. That was too bad. He could have used the kid’s help getting up the stairs. “Moses!” He didn’t manage much of a noise the second time.
Mike gave up and pushed himself away from the wall. He limped out of the garage and across the alley to the apartment’s back entrance and pulled himself up the stairs using the flimsy wooden handrail. When he got to the back door, he hesitated for a second and listened. It was quiet. He frowned and thought about not going in. Something didn’t seem right. He looked back down the stairs. They seemed steep and treacherous, so he took his chances and went inside.
The back room was pitch black except for the dimly lit exit sign over the door behind him. Mike reached back and hit a light switch and a bare bulb came on in the middle of the ceiling. Mike scanned the room. He didn’t
like it. The barren concrete floor was too shiny. It was insidiously clean.
Mike paused and listened again. There was no noise, not even Hank’s radio. Then Mike heard it. It was exactly what he didn’t want to hear: a slow breathing. It emanated from up in the shadows of the stairwell across the room. He readied the shotgun and aimed it at the staircase. Then he put his hand on the door behind him and started to back out. The sound of engines pulling up in the alley stopped him in his tracks. Car doors slammed. Mike took his hand off the knob and turned the latch to lock it instead. Then he started across to the stairwell. He got to the bottom of the stairs and aimed the shotgun up toward the breathing.
“Is that you, Mike?” The breathing had a voice.
Mike heard a sharp tap on the concrete. He recognized it. It was the sound of the legs of a leaned-back chair being put flat.
“You must have had a long night?” The voice bounced off the walls like marbles.
Mike couldn’t figure out where to aim, but whoever spoke was coming downstairs. Mike gripped the shotgun and waited.
After a second, a reed-thin man with a Mussolini skull emerged from the shadows carrying a revolver pointed at Mike. The cop wore the same flashy suit he’d been wearing that night outside the kid’s apartment. The creep pointed to a badge he had clipped his jacket. “I’m Detective Gomez.”
“How much you pay for that suit, detective? It looks too expensive on you.” Mike didn’t lower his weapon.
Gomez smiled. He never glanced at the shotgun. He was as confident as a cat with a canary. “They found five bodies up on Sunset this morning. That have anything to do with you?”
“This is the first I heard about it.” Mike didn’t flinch.
Gomez motioned for Mike to put the shotgun down. Mike hesitated. He wanted to shoot this bastard so bad he could taste it. Then he heard the sound of the door being kicked open behind him and he snapped out of it. As the cops from the alley streamed inside, Mike started up the stairs.
Gomez moved up, but pulled the hammer back on his gun. “Hold on a second, fella. We’re still talking.” His smile faded. “You can die right here if you want.”
Mike didn’t want to trade his life for a cop’s. That would be coming up short, so he lowered the shotgun slowly and put it on the steps. The cops rushed toward Mike. Gomez stopped them with an upraised palm. Then he turned his attention back to Mike.
“I’m looking for a girl.” Gomez kept the gun on Mike as he asked the questions.
“I’d try a wig. Girls don’t like bald.” Mike sneered.
Gomez sprang forward as quick as a cat and smashed Mike with the butt of the pistol. Mike lost his balance. He grabbed for the railing with his left hand while his right went to his nose. He tasted blood. Gomez took a step back, but his pistol stayed steady and his smile got bigger.
“You bastard, you may want to smile less if you’re gonna be throwing so much weight around.” Mike said.
Gomez took a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket. He pulled one from it with his teeth, then tossed the pack to Mike. Mike caught it with his bloody hand, took one for himself and jammed the pack into his pocket.
Gomez laughed. “You can keep the pack. Just start talking.”
Mike lit his smoke and inhaled. He didn’t say a word. The detective’s smile faded. He motioned with his gun and a couple of the cops behind Mike came forward. One picked up the shotgun. The other grabbed Mike by the upper arm.
“You talking about a blonde?” Mike shifted on his feet and let the cop take some of his weight.
“You know exactly who I’m talking about, so start with the goddamn talk.”
“I haven’t seen her.” Mike said.
Gomez paused for a second, then asked. “You sure you want to make this play?”
“Who says I’m playing?” Mike exhaled a cloud of smoke in Gomez’s face.
Gomez waved the smoke away with his pistol hand and changed the subject. “That leg looks pretty bad. How’d that happen?”
“I fell.” Mike answered.
Gomez kicked him in the bloodiest part of his wounded thigh. Mike howled in pain and grabbed his leg. He flattened his hands over the red pulp that seeped through the torn fabric and squeezed hard.
Gomez leaned down and got his face right up close to Mike’s. The cop spoke through clenched teeth. “I don’t like grifters in my town and I don’t like you blowing smoke at me, and I just don’t plain like you. You’re lucky I want you talkin’.”
“Go to hell.” Was all Mike could muster. The world was going dim. For a second, he thought the lights had been turned out.
“Come on.” Gomez grabbed Mike by the arm and pulled him to his feet.
Mike growled. “That money’s mine.
“You think too small, grifter.” Gomez searched Mike and found the Savage. He admired the gun for a second before dropping it into his pocket. Then he handed Mike over to a couple of cops. They maneuvered him downstairs. When they got to the bottom step, a cop punched Mike hard in the face and everything went black.
Mike’s ears woke up first. He heard an engine rumbling and the sound of traffic. His head lolled on the seat when the wheels bounced over rough pavement. Then he felt a sharp pain as a hand slapped his face. He opened his eyes.
Gomez sat next to him. Mike lunged toward him, but his hands were tied behind his back and Gomez stiff-armed him in the chest easily and stopped him. Then Gomez slapped him and he fell back against the window. Mike gave up, turned away, and looked out the window. He was in the back of a large sedan. It was cruising down Wilshire heading east toward downtown. It was going cop-fast and cavalier about the rules. Mike figured he was headed to jail.
Gomez read his mind. “Don’t worry, grifter, you’re not going in. Not yet anyway.”
“Then where we headed?” Mike kept his eye on the road. He studied the scenery.
“That depends on you.” Gomez dropped his words like rocks. “You ever hear of a Doug Flynn? He works for a friend of mine and they haven’t seen him since last night. Sometimes he goes by just D or big D.”
“A lot of those guys are big.” Mike said.
“We know you know this one. We even heard he picked you up at the train station.” Gomez slid across the leather seat and got close to Mike. “Where is he?”
Mike didn’t answer. Gomez reached for Mike’s hurt leg. He laid his hand on it. Mike flinched. Gomez kept with the talk. “He was a fat bastard. He just bought a Woodie. Hung around with your friend Benny. We just wanna get in touch with him. We’re worried he hurt himself. You see, we found his car out in the desert, burned halfway to hell, but only halfway, and the half that didn’t burnt has blood in it. Lots of it.” Gomez showed sharp teeth between his thin lips when he smiled.
Mike kept his mouth shut.
“Whoever fixed up your leg. I hope they were cheap. This job, well, I’ve seen better.” Gomez thumped the bandage with his index finger. Mike cringed.
“I promise I’m gonna….” Mike tried to pull away, but he was jammed up next to the door.
Gomez interrupted. “…you ain’t gonna do nothing. I’m gonna be just fine.”
“Go to hell.” Mike stopped struggling.
Gomez grabbed the leg anyway and squeezed. Mike’s vision telescoped into tiny white dots on a black background and he gasped for air. Gomez reached into Mike’s pocket and took back his cigarettes. Then he lit one, moved away, and gave Mike some room. He showed the pack to Mike. Mike pulled himself together and nodded. Gomez pulled another one, stuck it in Mike’s mouth, and lit it.
Gomez kept up with the chatter. “I got at lot on you, pal. If you are who I think you are, and I’m never wrong about people, I know people. I can tell you that for certain. People, I know people. The only mistakes I make when it comes to people are in spellin’. I can’t spell their names worth a darn, but I got that covered now. I gotta kid to check it for me. You know what I’m gettin’ at? Brother, you have made some poor decisions. Some of the wrong peop
le are real angry with you. Shit, if you turned up in our morgue down at the station, I bet I could sell tickets. People would travel to see you. They’d come out to California and watch you rot on a slab, then go to the beach and get some sun. How much you think I should sell those tickets for?”
Mike covered his smile by puffing on the smoke. He saw the angle now. Gomez had ambition. He didn’t want to rescue the girl. He didn’t care about the bodies up on Sunset. He wanted to let old man Spinelli know who was boss. He wanted to run this town. Take charge of the combination. “How long have you boys been working out of the Sunset Room?” Mike let Gomez know he knew about his big plans.
“Since I built it.” Gomez took the cigarette out of Mike’s mouth. He stubbed it out on the bottom of his shoe and, when he’d finished, he looked at Mike and whispered. “I already have her.”
Mike leaned forward as if to whisper back, but instead he shouted. “Good for you, pal.” Gomez flinched and his smile faded. He squeezed the leg again. Mike doubled over in pain.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Mike watched the city go past his window. He rested with his face pressed against the glass. The cops drove through downtown and came out on the Eastside. Mike could see the train station out the window behind them briefly, then they drove over a bridge he didn’t recognize and he no longer had any idea where they were. He’d gotten to town just a few days ago. The visit had been short. It was almost over and so was his life.
They drove north for awhile. Mike could tell that because the mountains were in front of him, or maybe he couldn’t. Before he decided which, the cops pulled up to a scrap yard near the river. Gomez stayed in the car while the driver hobbled up to an iron gate and opened it. The driver moved slowly. Mike could tell Gomez didn’t like it. The cop had a short temper. He exhaled sharply when the driver got back in the car.
