Gridlock: The Third Ryan Lock Novel

by Sean Black

  Ty thought back to high school, when he and his buddies might have been standing on the sidewalk, making jokes about the Short Bus or the Goof Troop. But here and now, with Kevin next to him, those jokes didn’t seem so much funny as pathetic. Maybe, he thought, kids used that kind of humor about people like Kevin to distance themselves because the reality was too uncomfortable. Or maybe he and his buddies had just been assholes when they’d cracked those jokes.

  After a couple of beers, Lock had once told Ty about his approach to such stuff and it had stayed with him: ‘If you’d feel like a complete asshole saying something to someone’s face, then don’t say it behind their back.’ Lock the philosopher, thought Ty, smiling.

  The bus pulled away and a number of the teenagers were pointing at Ty’s car. Most, but not all, had Down’s syndrome. Kevin waved at them, enjoying the attention. Then Ty noticed his brow furrow and he looked away.

  Wendy’s mother was escorting her daughter into the building. Ty rested a huge hand on Kevin’s shoulder. ‘You okay, brother?’

  Kevin gave a weak nod.

  ‘Listen, remember what I told you. It’ll work out. There’s no guy a girl likes better than the one her parents don’t want her seeing. Take it from me.’

  Ty started to escort Kevin across the road, but their path was blocked by a convoy of three more school buses, this time carrying what seemed to be high-school kids. It was only then that Ty noticed the building less than a half-block away from the adult learning center where he was dropping Kevin. His car was drawing attention from the high-school students too, but a couple of skater kids sporting shaggy hair on the last bus were more focused on Kevin’s friends on the other side of the road. One of the skaters jutted his jaw out, letting his face go slack, aping the expression of someone with Down’s. His buddy cracked up. The group waiting to go into the learning center looked away.

  Ty made a mental note of the two skater kids, then walked Kevin across the street and inside the building. When he came back out, some of the high-school kids were still milling about, grabbing the last few minutes before they had to be inside.

  Ty walked down the road towards the high school. The two skater kids he’d made a note of earlier were still outside, passing around a joint. The slightly taller one waved the joint in Ty’s direction as he closed in on them. ‘It’s okay, man, we’re good.’

  Black guy outside a high school has to be a drug-dealer in their world, thought Ty. He let his jacket, which he’d weighted with coins earlier so that it wouldn’t ride up and reveal his gun, slip to one side.

  The kid’s expression shifted in less time than it took Ty to pluck the joint from his hand and crush it under his boot. He stared at them.

  ‘It’s only a little weed, man,’ the smaller one offered.

  Ty kept staring, enjoying their discomfort. He nodded down the street. ‘You think the people over there don’t have enough bullshit to deal with without assholes like you making fun of them?’

  Their teenage bravado evaporated.

  ‘Answer me,’ Ty said.

  ‘No,’ said the taller of the two.

  ‘What about you?’ Ty said, addressing the shorter one, who seemed busy willing the ground to open up and swallow him.

  ‘They probably didn’t even see us.’

  Ty took a step forward. ‘Say what, motherfucker?’

  The kid remained silent, his face flushing.

  ‘And look at me when I’m talking to you, bitch,’ Ty continued.

  The other kids had melted away.

  ‘No.’ The kid’s voice was starting to fracture as he fought off tears. ‘I’m sorry. We won’t do it again.’

  ‘Damn straight,’ said Ty, and walked back towards the Continental.

  Twenty-five

  Dodging the airport’s main terminal building, Lock drove the black Range Rover towards a gatehouse-controlled side entrance where a guard checked his and Raven’s ID before directing them to a nearby aircraft hangar.

  A dozen jets were parked on the apron, mostly Gulfstreams and Cessnas. The cheapest one probably cost more than five million dollars, Lock guessed. If the world economy was in difficulty, clearly no one had told the people who owned or rented them.

  Lock knew from prior experience that security at private airports was generally more relaxed than at the ones that serviced the general public. Most people would never have cause to come near a facility like this. Raven’s stalker wasn’t most people, though, so he kept a close eye on everything around them as they got out of the vehicle.

  The jet to take them to Vegas, a Gulfstream G250, was waiting for them, stairs down, fuelled, crewed and good to go. Raven led the way, clearly familiar with the drill. Two female cabin crew greeted them at the top of the stairs. Their overnight bags were spirited away to a front storage area as they walked into the main cabin. Plush cream carpet swallowed them ankle deep as they made their way past a sparkling stainless-steel forward galley and a black-marble-topped bar towards the creamy-soft leather seats. At the back, Lock could see a bathroom, complete with shower, the size of ten cramped conventional aircraft restrooms, the interior walls covered with soft leather.

  The luxurious surroundings lent a soporific quality to the atmosphere, as if you were stepping out of the conscious world and into a dreamscape where nothing bad could possibly happen.

  Lock took a seat facing the front while Raven sat opposite him. One of the smartly dressed female cabin attendants asked if they wanted anything. Lock asked for water.

  ‘Vodka tonic. Ice, no lemon,’ Raven said, stretching out her long, jeans-clad legs.

  The flight attendant disappeared into the galley with her colleague as Lock took another look around. ‘Guess this beats Economy,’ he said. He dug into his pocket for his cell phone and started to pass it over. ‘Thought you might want to call your brother before we take off.’

  Raven smiled and opened a console next to her. She pulled out a telephone handset. ‘I was going to wait until we were up.’

  It was the first smile he’d seen from her in a while. Her full lips parted to reveal perfect white teeth and her eyes sparkled with life.

  ‘Not your first time on one of these,’ he said.

  ‘Like I explained, it’s an ongoing relationship. Although,’ she said, looking round, ‘this plane is a new one.’

  The flight attendant returned with their drinks, both of which were served in crystal glasses. Raven took a sip of vodka and closed her eyes. ‘I’m amazed Kevin still wants to stay in the house after the other night.’

  ‘Kids are resilient,’ was all Lock could offer. He was amazed that Raven had left him. After all her protestations about not wanting to leave town, here she was on a private jet headed for Vegas. It just didn’t synch.

  The jet was moving now, taxiing out towards the main runway, a soft winter sunset lying like crystal against the horizon. Lock put on his seatbelt and Raven followed suit.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ she said.

  He shrugged. ‘Sure.’

  ‘Ty has a gun, right?’

  ‘You know he does.’

  ‘So if the stalker comes back to the house, and Ty has the chance, will he kill him?’

  ‘If Ty considers that his or Kevin’s life is threatened, then yes, absolutely.’

  ‘And what about you, Ryan?’ she said, fixing him with those deep pools of violet.

  ‘Would I kill someone who posed a serious threat to the life of the person I’m protecting or to me? If I had to, yes.’

  She took another sip of her drink, as if she were bolstering her courage to ask the next question.

  ‘The man you killed in that stairwell in San Francisco.’

  Lock shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He wondered how she’d found out about that. Maybe Stanner had mentioned something. Or she could have worked it out from an Internet search. It was hardly a secret even if he was the only one who knew the real story.

  They were moving down the runway now, the landsc
ape of patchy grass and chain-link fence whipping past at a furious pace.

  ‘What about him?’ he asked her.

  Another sip of vodka. ‘Do you think about him?’

  Lock shook his head. ‘I took a decision. I stand by it. So, no, I don’t think about him, and before you ask, I don’t regret it either.’

  Raven nodded, seemingly satisfied. ‘That makes me feel a lot safer.’

  Twenty-six

  Carrie got out of her car and stretched the kinks out of her back. She hesitated for a moment, car keys dangling in her hand. Directly ahead of her, perched at the end of the steeply sloped cul-de-sac in the Hollywood Hills, lay her final destination, a sterile, post-modern monstrosity of concrete and glass: the home of adult-movie director Vince Vice.

  Her background checking into Vice had yielded his address easily enough but there was no phone number to go with it so she had decided on impulse to drive over from Malibu. She had a feeling that Vice lay at the dark heart of a world that might provide the clue as to who was terrorizing Raven. But Carrie recognized that there was more to her desire to confront Vice: she wanted to observe the monster up close. She’d started out with a belief that she would find a pathetic creature, that the reality of Vice would be at odds with his sadistic image. Now she was here she was less sure, and regretting that she had told no one, Lock included, about her plans to visit.

  But something in her wouldn’t allow her to turn back now. Vice might have scared a bunch of insecure runaways but he wouldn’t scare Carrie.

  At the bottom of the steep driveway there was a pair of heavy black iron gates. They were open. She could have driven through them and parked directly outside but she chose to leave the car where it was and hike up the slope. Always secure your escape route. It was one of the many things that Lock had drilled into her.

  Through the glass walls she couldn’t see anyone moving about inside. At the front door, which was positioned to the side of the house, two phallic-looking cacti stood in planters. A sticker in one of the windows advertised that the house was protected by an armed security company. So far so LA.

  She rang the bell and waited. A full minute passed. She was about to wander around to the front of the house to take a closer look when the front door was flung open. A man she recognized as Vince Vice stood in front of her, legs splayed, arms folded. He was wearing skintight Speedo swimming trunks and a cowboy hat. A Native American-style feather necklace hung from his neck.

  He looked her up and down, lingering on her breasts. He still hadn’t opened his mouth and she was already creeped out.

  ‘Mr Vice, I’m Carrie—’

  He cut her off with a wave of his hand. ‘You’re late. Come in.’

  Telling herself that she’d dealt with bigger scumbags than this guy, Carrie stepped into the foyer. White tiles stretched through the house, adding to the overall coldness and sterility that seemed to seep from the walls.

  ‘Mr Vice?’ she shouted, as he walked away from her, then around a corner.

  She heard his voice somewhere in the distance. ‘How come you actresses are always late?’

  She took a deep breath, cursing herself again for failing to let anyone know that she was coming here – but it was too late for that now. And to turn back would leave her feeling foolish. She pressed on.

  As she rounded the corner, the corridor opened out into a vast open-plan living area. There was a black leather couch, a glass coffee-table with a tiny mound of white powder and a razor blade, a fifty-inch plasma-screen television, tuned to what Carrie guessed was one of Vice’s movies, and a video camera mounted on a tripod.

  Vice was behind the camera. ‘Take your clothes off,’ he said. He sniffed and rubbed at his nose. Carrie noticed that his movements were jittery and agitated, his eyes hollow from lack of sleep.

  She straightened. ‘Your real name’s Paul Aronofsky. Correct?’

  Something in Vice’s expression shifted. He checked his watch. ‘Ronnie didn’t send you over, did he?’

  ‘I’ve no idea who Ronnie is, or who you think I am. And I don’t appreciate you barking at me like I’m a piece of meat.’

  Vice’s face darkened and he moved out from behind the camera. ‘So who are you?’

  ‘I’m a reporter. I wanted to ask you some questions.’

  ‘What kind of questions?’

  ‘When was the last time you saw Cindy Canyon?’

  Vice’s right hand started to slide down the back of the couch. ‘I don’t know anyone by that name.’

  ‘Yes, you do. You made a movie with her.’

  ‘Do you know how many actresses I’ve worked with? Hundreds. Thousands over my career.’

  ‘I’m sure you have,’ Carrie said, watching his right hand as it came back up with a handgun. A big one. A Magnum .44.

  ‘Everyone out here wants to be in movies,’ Vice said. ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’ll pass,’ she said, trying to inject a note of confidence into her voice.

  ‘You sure about that?’ he asked, pulling back the hammer and casually raising the gun so it was pointed at her.

  Carrie took a step backwards, almost stumbling over the corner of a rug she hadn’t noticed on the way in. She had expected him to be hostile – his bio had told her that. She hadn’t expected a reaction so extreme, though.

  ‘Tell you what,’ he said, his voice soft and reasonable. ‘I’ll put the gun down and you can ask me all the questions you like.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Carrie, her heart pounding as she waited for the catch.

  ‘But when you’re done, I get to ask you some questions. We have a deal?’

  ‘I’ll have to take notes. And you have to put down the gun. I can’t concentrate with it pointed at me.’

  ‘Sure,’ he said, with a smirk, the gun dropping to his side.

  Carrie thought back over the ground she’d covered when she’d walked into the house. She had to take maybe four steps until she was round the corner and back in the hallway. He might be able to raise the gun and get off a shot in that time even in his coked-up state but she’d probably make it. The problem was the long stretch of corridor to the front door. He would be ten or twelve paces behind. She could gain a couple more steps if she got the jump on him. But how long was the corridor? Twenty steps? Thirty?

  Then there was the question of the door. She had followed him inside so he couldn’t have secured a chain. But it was closed, and she had no idea how long it would take her to get it open. Ryan would have known. But he probably wouldn’t have followed the guy inside without an exit strategy. How she wished he was with her now.

  ‘Why don’t you sit down, make yourself comfortable?’ Vice said, patting the sofa.

  ‘I’m fine right here.’

  Vice shrugged. The paranoia that had flared in his eyes a moment ago seemed to be receding. His movements were still jerky and staccato but Carrie felt herself relax a notch.

  ‘You wanted to know about Cindy Canyon,’ he prompted. ‘But there’s just one thing before I tell you.’

  ‘And what’s that, Paul? You don’t mind me calling you by your first name, do you?’

  ‘I’d prefer if you called me Vince. Paul’s dead.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘You mind if I …?’ He nodded to the cocaine on the table.

  ‘It’s your house.’

  Vice made a big show of chopping out two lines with the razor and hoovering one up into each nostril. His nose flared red and his eyes watered and it took him a moment to settle. ‘What happened to Paul?’ he said, repeating the question. ‘You might as well ask what happened to whoever Cindy Canyon was before she became Cindy Canyon.’

  Carrie cleared her throat. ‘Her original name was Melanie Spiteri.’

  He laughed. ‘You see …’ He paused.

  ‘Carrie Delaney. I only have one name.’

  ‘You see, Carrie,’ Vice said, slumping back into the couch, ‘the adult industry is a place where people come to reinvent t
hemselves, to escape from who they were, to become someone or something else. That’s the first thing you have to understand. It’s not about sex. Not really.’

  ‘So what is it about?’

  ‘I just told you. It’s about freedom. The freedom to be who you truly are, not who your parents or your teachers or the Church want you to be.’

  Even with the gun, Carrie wasn’t about to let this pseudo-philosophical bullshit fly. ‘So, getting some teenager fresh off the bus to dress up as a schoolgirl, then forcing her to have oral sex until she throws up is about freedom?’

  Vice held up his non-gun hand, palm open. ‘Do you want to learn or do you want to preach?’

  ‘You know what happened to Melanie Spiteri?’

  He nodded towards the huge TV. ‘Caught it on the news,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘Shit happens in this business.’ He stroked the .44 Magnum, which was next to him on the couch. ‘That’s why you can’t be too careful.’

  ‘Had you heard about anyone threatening her? A stalker, maybe?’

  Vice smirked. ‘How the hell would I know? I worked with her once.’

  ‘And you don’t get much repeat business?’

  ‘Once is usually enough. Most of them can’t take the pace of a Vince Vice flick.’

  Carrie sighed. ‘I bet. What about Raven Lane?’

  Vice ran his fingers through his short cropped hair. ‘What about her?’

  ‘You worked with her at the start of her career too.’

  ‘Yeah, me and Raven go way back, but I haven’t seen her in years. Not since she threatened to kill me anyway.’

  Carrie felt relief that he had brought up Raven’s threat without being prompted. ‘You weren’t worried by her threatening you like that?’

  ‘Not enough to want to harm her. I’ve already gone over all of this with the cops. Listen, you might not like what I do or how I make my living, but I’m the one whose life is being threatened.’

  ‘What do you mean? Raven made that threat years ago.’

  Vice lifted the gun again, holding it in two hands. ‘I’ve had phone calls in the past few weeks. Why do you think I have this?’