Devil's Dance

by Daniel Depp

  ‘Would you mind coming with us, Mr Spandau?’

  ‘I would in fact. I’m tired and I haven’t had dinner yet and I will be leaving town first thing in the morning, so all this is pointless.’

  ‘We’d still like to talk to you, Mr Spandau, so if you wouldn’t mind …’

  Spandau followed them outside. He was pulling on his coat when one of them took it away from him and another slammed him forward against the police car.

  ‘Put your hands on the hood there, Mr Spandau. You know how to do this. Take a step back and spread your feet apart.’

  They frisked him quickly and roughly, then pulled his hands behind him and cuffed them.

  ‘Why don’t we call Father Michael now and tell him I get the point.’

  ‘I have no idea who you are referring to, sir, we are only civic officers in pursuit of our duty. We have no real idea who you are, sir, and as a stranger in our community there is some question as to your identity and your motives. We have a right to hold you for up to twenty-four hours, sir, while we attempt to verify your real identity.’

  ‘You been having trouble with jewel thieves in this area lately?’

  ‘That is an odd question to ask, sir, and it is overtly suspicious that you should mention it.’

  Overtly, thought Spandau. I love that.

  They pushed him into the car. One of them sat in back next to him. They were all smiling. Three of them in one patrol car meant this whole thing wasn’t official, and the guy sitting next to him wasn’t wearing a piece. Spandau also noticed they were heading out of town.

  ‘Would it be overtly insulting if I pointed out that you’re driving in the wrong direction?’

  ‘No, sir, it would not.’

  They drove about five miles out of town, then pulled off onto a dirt road and drove another quarter of a mile deep into the trees. They pulled over and dragged Spandau from the car. One of them opened the trunk and took out a canvas duffel bag.

  ‘You’ve had your fun,’ said Spandau. ‘Either take me to the station or take me home because anything else is kidnapping. Get me back to town before the diner closes and maybe I’ll be sympathetic when they start to throw your asses in prison.’

  They led Spandau into the woods.

  ‘Let’s see. I haven’t done anything serious enough to justify murder, and it’ll be hard to explain showing up in a few hours with the crap beaten out of me. It’s too early in the year to look for mushrooms and I’m really hoping you don’t have any amorous intentions. Otherwise I’m at a loss to figure out why the hell we’re here.’

  ‘You ever been on a snipe hunt, Mr Spandau?’

  ‘Oh come on. Even you guys aren’t hick enough to still be doing that.’

  One of them kicked out and swept Spandau’s feet from under him. He fell into the earth and wet leaves. The deputy with the duffel bag opened it and took out ten feet of lightweight logging chain. He swung it around a three-foot-diameter tree, catching the other end, then clamped it together with a padlock.

  ‘I don’t know how you fancy dudes in the big city do it, but up here in Oregon’ (he pronounced it OR-ee-gon) ‘we have a game of snipe that we save just for smart sons of bitches from out of town who cause trouble and try to make us look like assholes.’

  The guy with the duffel bag pulled out a plastic tarp and spread it on the ground at the foot of the tree. Then he took out a cheap sleeping bag and a blanket and set them down on the tarp.

  Spandau looked at the setup.

  ‘You’re kidding. Come on guys.’

  ‘Right now I am going to uncuff one of your hands, Mr Spandau, and I assure you that if you take a swing or try to run we are going to stomp all over you and you will be sitting on your ass on the cold wet ground until we feel like coming to get you. Now play nice.’

  They uncuffed one of his hands, then attached the empty cuff loosely to the chain.

  ‘Now see there, you can go anywhere you like as long as it ain’t more than about three feet away from this tree. There’s a slight slope down that a way, so unless you don’t mind sitting in it all night I suggest you shit or pee on the downward side.’

  The guy with the duffel bag upended it onto the tarp, spilling several bottles of water, a bunch of granola power bars, and a roll of toilet paper.

  ‘We are civilized people, Mr Spandau, and believe it or not we are concerned with your welfare. We want you to be comfortable, but not so comfortable that you’re ever going to show your sorry Ralph Lauren Polo-wearing Spago-sitting arrogant big-city ass in this county again.’

  ‘Would it help to swear I’ve learned my lesson?’

  ‘Nope. It won’t help to yell either, because there’s nobody for a couple of miles. Now listen, Mr Spandau, here are the rules. You just sit right here under this tree, and if you see a snipe, then you yell “snipe” and we’ll run right back out here and pick you up. You got that? It’s real simple.’

  ‘Did I mention my asthma and my heart condition and how I forgot my meds?’

  ‘That reminds me. You want to toss me your cell phone? We’ll give it back to you in the morning.’

  He relinquished the phone.

  ‘Snakes you don’t have to worry about. I’ve seen wild pigs but if they come it’ll be for the power bars and not you, so throw the damn things as far away as you can. Same thing for bears. You see a bear, I suggest you use that LA charm of yours. Or better yet, tell him you’re with Showtime and you want to do a documentary on him. Frigging bears will believe anything.’

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  He managed one-handed to wrap the blanket around him and slide himself into the sleeping bag. He was still damned cold but he wouldn’t freeze. He ate all the power bars but went light on the water since he didn’t want to climb out to pee. There were no bears or wild pigs but small animals did move invisibly in the brush. Their frequent slaughter of the fish in his backyard pond gave him a distaste for raccoons, the vicious bastards.

  He was actually asleep when a truck pulled up off the road and stopped a few yards away, blinding him in the headlights. A man got out. He didn’t recognize the lead deputy until he came over and unlocked the chain and handcuffs. Spandau looked at his watch.

  ‘It’s just eleven,’ Spandau said. ‘Don’t tell me you got soft-hearted all of a sudden.’

  He gave Spandau back his cell phone. ‘You got some messages you probably ought to look at.’

  The deputy began gathering the snipe gear. Spandau checked his phone. Nearly a dozen texts all saying more or less the same thing. Walter dead. Where are you. And then the phone messages, Pookie’s anguished voice, sobbing, doing her best to give Spandau the ugly details.

  ‘Man, I’m sorry,’ said the deputy. ‘We were just trying … Well, you know, it wasn’t like …’

  Spandau tried to dial but there was no fucking reception anyway.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the deputy repeated. ‘I hope it wasn’t anybody family.’

  ‘Just get me back to my fucking car, will you? Can you manage that?’

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  ‘Oh baby, oh baby don’t stop.’

  Araz pumped harder. They were both bathed in sweat.

  ‘This what you want?’ Araz said. ‘This what you’ve been wanting?’

  ‘Yes oh yes.’

  ‘You want me to stop? You want me to stop fucking you?’

  ‘No don’t stop.’

  ‘Say it, cunt,’ said Araz. ‘Beg me to fuck you.’

  ‘Don’t stop. Please. Fuck me.’

  Araz thrust angrily a few more times then came and collapsed onto the flesh beneath him.

  ‘Oh god,’ said Mitchell.

  ‘Was it good?’ asked Araz when he could get his breath. He kissed Mitchell between the shoulders.

  ‘Are you taking vitamins or something? What is it with you, getting all Joe Dalessandro on me? It’s like an Andy Warhol porn film.’ Araz started to pull away but Mitchell said, ‘Don’t move, just stay there for a little longer.’


  Araz lay his head on the damp back. ‘What do you say in a gay bar when a condom goes flying across the room?’

  ‘Who farted,’ said Mitchell. ‘I told you that one. What a time to think of it.’

  ‘What about the parrot with no legs?’

  ‘You’ve ruined the moment,’ said Mitchell. ‘You romantic fool you.’

  Araz pulled out. The condom remained in his lover’s ass. Araz gently removed it, then rolled off Mitchell and went to the bathroom to throw the condom away.

  ‘I’m not fucking around,’ said Mitchell, ‘and if you’re not then we don’t need that.’

  Araz climbed back into bed but didn’t reply. Mitchell said,

  ‘We could get tested, if that would make you feel better.’

  ‘Great,’ said Araz. ‘That’s just all I need. We could also wear matching “I’m Queer!” T-shirts. My uncle would love that.’

  ‘Fuck your uncle.’

  ‘My uncle saw us like this he’d kill us both. I mean that literally.’

  ‘You’re such a drama queen. Who cares what he thinks.’

  ‘I keep telling you, you don’t fucking understand. I mean it. He’d kill us both. You have to understand this. You don’t know how big a deal this is. He finds out, we’re both dead. I don’t know how I can make that any clearer.’

  ‘I think you’re exaggerating.’

  ‘You haven’t said anything, right? No one knows?’

  ‘Calm down. No, I haven’t told anybody. Not that I don’t want to. How long is this supposed to go on?’

  ‘I don’t know. Always. Or until he dies. Maybe when he dies.’

  ‘So you’re my fucking ghost lover until your fucking uncle dies? This makes me so happy, Araz, to hear how much you love me.’

  ‘Who said I love you?’ Araz puts his arms around him, pulled him close.

  ‘You did, about a hundred times last night, until you got what you wanted.’

  ‘You didn’t like it?’

  Mitchell laughed. ‘I’d rather you were less In and more Out.’

  ‘You don’t start taking this whole thing seriously,’ Araz said, ‘and maybe the best thing I can do is get us buried together. Would that make you happy?’

  He got out of bed, started dressing.

  ‘Where are you going?’ asked Mitchell. ‘Don’t you want a shower?’

  ‘I have to see my uncle first thing.’

  ‘I’m sorry I don’t smell like cunt,’ said Mitchell. ‘Some little eau de snatch for you to wear around all day. Would Uncle Atom recognize dried semen on your shirt collar?’

  ‘Don’t even joke about it,’ said Araz. He went over to kiss Mitchell, who tried to pull him back into bed. Araz broke free.

  ‘Asshole,’ said Mitchell.

  ‘Cunt,’ said Araz, who blew a kiss and left.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Uncle Atom sat at his desk. The archaic adding machine was turned upside down in front of him. He was poking at it with a screwdriver.

  ‘This fucking machine,’ said Atom. ‘You know anything about this?’

  ‘You mean adding machines?’ said Araz.

  ‘No,’ said Atom, ‘fucking atomic physics.’

  Atom prodded a bit, tossed the screwdriver down onto the desk. He looked up at Araz and considered him for a moment. Said,

  ‘You hear anything about the debt you’re owed? Any news?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Araz. ‘Didn’t you understand what I just said?’

  Uncle Atom was sitting behind the desk. He got up, walked around to Araz, then backhanded him across the face.

  ‘Don’t you ever talk to me like that again.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Araz automatically, rubbing his cheek. ‘I just, I just thought it was important.’

  ‘You do? You think it’s important?’

  ‘We don’t want to go to war with Locatelli, right?’

  ‘Why not,’ said Uncle Atom.

  ‘Because they’re bigger and stronger than we are. They’ll wipe us out.’

  Uncle Atom shrugged.

  ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘But nobody is going to war with anybody. Maybe one day, but not yet. And when it happens, my friend, it won’t be over a fucking Jap sushi parlor. You’re being manipulated. It worries me you can’t see this. We give Joey Vernors money to keep the cops in that neighborhood off our back. Locatelli gives him more. Which of us do you think he’d rather keep doing business with? You’ve got to stop being stupid.’

  ‘He says they’re upset about the Jap.’

  Atom raised his voice.

  ‘I’m telling you nobody gives a shit about the Jap! Are you hearing me, you little prick? I don’t care about the Jap, Benny Bono doesn’t care about the Jap, Joey Vernors sure as shit doesn’t care about the Jap. The only fucking asshole who seems to care about the Jap is you, for reasons that escape me. Joey Vernors collects twice for the same turf. Salvatore Locatelli could drop a nuclear bomb on us and Joey Vernors doesn’t care except he loses the envelope every week. It’s not convenient for Mr Joey Vernors for anything to happen to us yet, you moron.’

  Uncle Atom belched.

  ‘Stupidity upsets my stomach,’ he said. He went over to a small fridge, took out a can of Diet Coke, popped it, took a swig, belched heartily again. He sat back down. ‘What is it with you and this Jap?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Araz.

  ‘Then what the hell do you care what happens to him?’

  ‘I just thought it was, you know, over the top. We fried his fucking hand. He can’t work. That seems kind of self-defeating. He can’t work, he can’t pay.’

  ‘Over the top,’ said Uncle Atom.

  ‘You know,’ said Araz, ‘overkill.’

  ‘Over the top,’ said Uncle Atom. ‘Overkill. How about when your fucking paycheck is over, how about that, hah? I’ll give you over.’

  ‘I just meant—’

  ‘I’m talking to you, I’m standing right here, I can hear you. I know what you meant. Look me in the eye.’

  Araz looked at him.

  ‘I never want to hear about Savan doing your job for you again, you hear me?’

  ‘You gave the orders to Savan.’

  ‘What is this, your feelings are hurt? I told Savan and Savan told you and you’re the one in fucking charge. You’re the eldest, you’re the one who I’m supposed to depend on to carry out the orders. Not Tavit, not Savan. You.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You’re weak,’ Atom said. ‘You’re like your father. Savan isn’t.’

  ‘Savan doesn’t use his head.’

  ‘And that’s the only damned reason you’ve still got a job,’ said Atom. ‘But I don’t need a goddamned intellectual out here for me. I need a tiger. Can you be a tiger?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We’ll see. Now get out of my face.’

  Araz started to leave.

  ‘I mean it about that money,’ said Atom. ‘You don’t retrieve it, it comes out of your pocket.’

  Araz nodded.

  Atom belched. Picked up the screwdriver, prodded the carcass of the adding machine.

  ‘Piece of shit,’ he said.

  Araz left.

  FORTY

  Lieutenant Luis Ramirez of the LAPD stared at the shot of whiskey and the glass of beer on the bar in front of him. He shook his head, picked up the shot and knocked it back, reached quickly for the beer and took a pull to counteract the bourbon as it hit his guts.

  ‘Fucking crazy bastard,’ he said, shaking his head again, ‘but a class act. A pain in the fucking ass, but a class act anyway.’

  He rapped on the bar to get Pancho’s attention and Pancho brought over another shot and sat it in front of him.

  ‘You want another too? On the house this evening,’ he said to Spandau, who sat next to Ramirez. There were just the three of them in the place.

  ‘Sure,’ said Spandau. ‘Why not?’

  They were in Pancho’s Mexican Bar and Grill on Olympia. Frank ‘Pancho’ Obeler
was an ex-cop and in the good old bad old days before Anna, Walter and Spandau used to come in here to do their serious drinking, Walter had loaned Pancho the money to start the bar and in turn Pancho provided a safe place for Walter to get smashed. Walter couldn’t just get drunk anywhere, he had a certain reputation to keep up for his elite clientele, couldn’t just get blotto in front of the crowd at the Polo Lounge then expect them to sit across your desk and trust you with their dirty little secrets. Walter Coren always said the key to the success of Coren Security and Investigations was giving the appearance that you were gentleman enough to trust but amoral enough to get the job done. They need to feel you were ‘one of them’, a member of the club, though it was important you both realized you were there only on sufferance, only there because you provided a service they needed and couldn’t trust to anybody else. It was an odd juggling act and Walter did it beautifully.

  Ramirez said, ‘Are you sure you want to hear this?’

  Spandau nodded.

  ‘He goes into the Beverly Wilshire,’ said Ramirez. ‘He gets a suite on the top floor, big fucking rooms, like he’s going to throw a goddamn party or something. He’s dead sober but he’s tipping like a goddamn sailor in a Filipino whorehouse. Handing out c-notes all over the place. Smiling like a bastard, happy as hell, they say. He’s got a small briefcase, no other luggage, but nobody is suspicious because people rent these places all the time just to throw a shindig, impress clients, that sort of thing.’

  He guzzled down a third of his beer, wiped his mouth with the back of a hairy paw the size of a catcher’s mitt. Ramirez was six-four and ugly with dark hair shaved to marine buzz cut. When he was thinking or nervous, like now, he put his hand to his head and the tips of his fingers rode back and forth on a four-inch scar somebody once made with a broken wine bottle.

  ‘They take him up to his room. Yes Mr Coren, no Mr Coren, they can’t do enough for him. He orders a huge meal. Oysters, steak, champagne. Are you expecting guests, Mr Coren? No, he says politely, it’s just me. But if a Mr Gabriel shows up, send him directly up, will you?’

  Spandau and Ramirez and Pancho all laugh. It’s such a fucking Walter thing to say. Walter in that smartass way is telling them exactly what’s about to happen and they don’t even know.