The House That Death Built

by Michaelbrent Collings

  Bad luck could turn every good idea into a catastrophe.

  Bad luck could change promise to dearth.

  Bad luck could keep you down.

  Bad luck was, overall, a malicious asshole.

  Bad luck had taken that one night –

  (What was that family's name?)

  – and changed it from a one-time screw-up to a pattern. Since then, Rob hadn't managed to put together a single job that didn't go sideways. They all broke even at best, lost him money at worst. Tommy and Kayla still went along with his ideas, but he suspected that was because Kayla was an adrenaline-junkie, and Tommy was willing to brave one bad job after another if it meant he might get to kill someone.

  No good jobs. Just a never-ending storm of bad luck.

  Until tonight.

  Rob knew the instant the guy walked into the restaurant. Knew that this was the moment things would start to turn around.

  He made sure the stranger was seated at his station, and made sure to be attentive, careful, caring. You didn't get to be a waiter at a place like Rudolfo's – arguably the finest restaurant in Los Angeles – without being all those things. But still, there was service and there was capital "s" Service. And that was what Rob provided.

  He wasn't Rob here, of course. "Rob" was far to gauche a name for someone who provided vittles to the rich and famous. Here you had to be something with at least two syllables, so here he was "Robert" – even though that was what his old man had called him and every time someone said it he had to resist the urge to look around to see if the worthless coot had somehow come back from the dead.

  So it wasn't Rob who attended the man. It was Robert. And Robert was such a perfect waiter that how could anyone help but start chatting with him?

  Chatting was part of how it worked. The way it had to start for the job to work.

  The man looked like he was in his mid to late forties. Dark hair that was graying at the edges, nose that had a bit of a hook to it, though not so much that it was unattractive; it simply made him seem a bit dark, a bit dangerous. Someone who wasn't merely wealthy, but powerful.

  Those were the best marks. They were the ones Rob could enjoy the most – taking what they had and making them beg. Delicious.

  The man wore a suit that had the distinctive look of a Brioni, which made Robert grin all the wider. Anyone who wore a fifty-thousand-dollar suit would have money to burn, and money to take. He also wore a top-of-the-line Omega that matched the gold cufflinks he wore, said cufflinks sporting rocks so large that an uncouth like Rob would think must be cubic zirconia.

  But Robert knew better. These were diamonds.

  Both Robert and Rob were in agreement.

  He's perfect.

  The man ordered no food, which surprised Robert. He did order a bottle of Penfolds Grange 2007, which more than made up for it since that cost nearly as much as a typical meal at Rudolfo's.

  Robert thought, He has excellent taste.

  Rob thought, This guy's loaded.

  The wine sat unopened for a long time, the man at the table just ordering water. That meant he was waiting for someone.

  Wife? Fiancé? Mistress?

  Whoever he was waiting for, Robert would be there. And Rob would be listening.

  After half an hour, the man sighed, then pulled out his phone and sent a quick text message. He put it on the table, then picked it up as soon as it vibrated. Sighed again and put it back in his coat pocket before signaling to Robert and asking him to open the bottle.

  Robert did. He pulled out a corkscrew in a motion so smooth he knew it would seem near magic, then offered the cork to the man. He declined. Robert placed the cork on the table, then poured a glass before setting the wine on the table.

  "Would you like a dinner menu after all, sir?" Robert asked. His voice was smooth. Not a voice that spoke of high education or even high class. It was better than that, because every tone spoke the one thing every single rich –

  (entitled sonofabitch)

  – patron wished to hear: I am at your complete disposal and service.

  The man shook his head. Not curtly, which was good. Robert had worried he might be angry at whatever he had read on his phone, which made information gathering harder. But the man –

  (the mark)

  – seemed at ease. Not angry, though no longer wearing quite the smile he had had when he first walked in.

  Robert left. Serving several other patrons, but always with his body angled so he could see the man as he slowly drained the bottle of wine.

  Finally, Robert – with a bit of prodding from Rob – went over and said, "Sir, can I call you a cab?"

  The man at the table looked at him, his eyes tracking around a bit before finally managing to settle on Robert's face. Then he waited a few seconds, as though the words hadn't quite filtered in.

  The man grinned lopsidedly. "I look that bad?"

  Robert was the soul of tact and discretion. "Not at all, sir. Just making sure you are comfortable and cared for."

  The man's gaze drifted to the bottle. He had spilled a bit the last time he poured, and the linen tablecloth had darkened. Crimson on white.

  (Blood on a carpet.)

  "Probably best that you do call me a cab, I guess."

  His words weren't slurred too badly, but there was a definite laziness about his pronunciation. Again, good. Both Robert and Rob knew that this space between a simple buzz and a full-tilt bender was a time when normally quiet people would open up. Would speak secrets.

  "Celebrating, sir?" said Robert.

  The man's grin grew wider. "Big news for the wife. Big news."

  "Congratulations, sir. If you wish to stay longer to wait for her, I certainly don't wish you to feel as though –"

  "No," said the other man, waving him off. "It's fine. She won't be joining me."

  "My condolences, sir."

  The other man shrugged. "She had a big day. Lot of work to do. And she didn't even know we were celebrating."

  "Indeed?" Robert was aware that his manager had glanced his direction. A subtle look that meant he was probably going to get in trouble later for chatting up the clientele.

  Suck it, dickhead, said Rob in his head.

  Robert merely smiled and nodded in a way that indicated he was here because the patron wanted him here.

  "Yeah, no, she doesn't know. Surprise." The man leaned in a bit. Conspiratorial. "Kept it a secret. A secret our whole marriage. But tomorrow…." He leaned back and Robert expected him to rub his hands together in excitement.

  The man belched instead. Then he said, "Tomorrow is my big Tefra payment."

  Robert felt a thrill.

  Tefra?

  For this guy?

  For this guy?

  Holy shit.

  He wasn't sure who voiced the last. Normally Robert wouldn't even come close to such gross speech. But in this case….

  Still, he kept his face blank. The way to keep someone talking wasn't to tell them what you knew. It was to show you needed them to explain.

  "Tefra?" he said, putting just the right nonchalance into his expression: Interesting. I've never heard of it. But don't feel as though you must tell me more. Only if you wish to.

  The man nodded. "You never heard of it?"

  (yes yes oh yes you bet your life I have)

  Robert shook his head. "I'm afraid not. Should I have?"

  The man nearly giggled with glee. "Nope. She hasn't, either. But when I pop open the safe and tell her…." The man mimed his head exploding.

  Rob caught onto the word: "safe."

  Good news: people only held their greatest treasures in safes.

  Bad news: that meant he'd have to get Aaron on board.

  The man at the table fell to silence as his sodden brain ran out of things to say. Robert waited a polite moment, then said, "Well, congratulations, sir. Will there be anything else?"

  The man nodded, then shook his head. Not a very clear set of gestures, taken together. But he fum
bled at his pocket a moment later and took out a number of bills. He dropped four hundreds on the table.

  "Keep the change," he said.

  Robert nodded and smoothly removed the bills. Not so quickly that he would seem overeager, just acting to remove a tacky thing like the price of the man's wine. One of the things that made Rudolfo's seem so upper-crust was that there were no prices on the menu, no mention of cost. If you could come here, there were no questions or concerns about expense. The illusion that everything was so costly it came full circle and was free.

  A lie, Rob knew. Everything costs something.

  Robert waited a moment. The man looked at him, confused. Robert waited a bit longer, just enough to make the pause a bit awkward, a bit uncomfortable. He did it for no other reason than because he wanted the man to know he wasn't in charge.

  Not Rudolfo's policy, of course. But you have to make every job at least a little fun, or else what is it really worth?

  Finally, he let the man off the hook. "And where shall I tell the cab company they will be taking you?" he asked.

  Another moment for that to crawl slowly to the dwindling thought-centers of the other man's brain. Robert had timed it perfectly: the man's blood was still receiving the alcohol that had made its way to the other man's stomach. Another few minutes and he wouldn't be buzzed, he'd be stinking drunk. And that would have made him all but useless for Robert's purposes.

  Perfect timing.

  Things are looking up.

  The man finally mumbled, "It's, uh… uh…."

  This time Robert resumed his place as knight-errant – the noble creature who existed only to seek out chivalrous adventures. Not in a medieval setting, a castle in old Britain. No, Robert was a man who moved from table to table, searching for moments of perfection and aiding them with a pleasant word, a quiet refilling of a woman's cup, a discretely blind eye when sixty-year-old men showed up with women a third their age who were so clearly uncomfortable in their eveningwear that they could only be hookers.

  "Perhaps your driver's license might assist you?" he said.

  The man blinked again. Then: "Yeah… good. Yeah."

  Another fumble through his wallet, which Robert noted was from Barney's. The man finally managed to pull his ID out of its sleeve. Before he held it out, though, he showed Robert something inside. A picture of a smiling woman and a teenager, both with dark shoulder-length hair and deep brown eyes. Both striking – beautiful.

  "My wife and daughter," said the man. And the way he said it was a rarity in this place: he loved them, pure and simple.

  Rob thrilled. This was not a family, it was a perfect dream. One to get what was necessary, two more for leverage.

  Robert nodded. Swept the ID out of the other man's hand. He glanced down at it. "Jason Crawford," it said, and the address was one that wasn't in the best part of town – it was a town unto itself.

  Perfect.

  "Excellent, sir," he said of the picture. "Quite beautiful, both of them."

  "Yeah," said the man, that love –

  (that weakness)

  – oozing out of the word.

  Robert felt vaguely sick. Rob would have been gagging.

  None of this showed on his face. He gave a small bow, then went to the telephone. The manager raised an eyebrow as he passed, a very genteel, "What the hell were you doing over there?"

  Robert shrugged and smiled his most ingratiating smile. He didn't want to lose his job. It paid the bills and, more importantly, found him the best scores.

  He raised the man's – Jason's – ID and mouthed, "Cab." The manager frowned just so, then nodded.

  Jason called the cab. Asked them to hurry and said Rudolfo's would pay a guaranteed gratuity – all part of the Rudolfo's experience – then returned the ID to Jason. A few minutes later he received notification that the cab was waiting.

  He returned to the table with Jason's coat, then graciously offered him an arm and saw him down to the street and into the cab.

  The instant before the man got into his ride, he turned and swept Robert into a drunken "you're the best, pal," embrace.

  Robert endured. He even smiled. "Take care, sir," he said. "Congratulations on your day."

  Then the cab was off. Robert waved, a smile in his eyes. Nothing but sincere happiness at a patron's good luck.

  The cab turned a corner.

  The second the city swallowed it, something disappeared. Robert was suddenly and completely gone, replaced by the Rob who had been champing at the bit, waiting for his moment.

  Rob pulled a cell phone from his pocket. Dialed in the first number he would have to call before returning to Rudolfo's.

  The phone picked up. Without waiting for so much as a hello, Rob said, "I need you to pull some records."

  Tommy's voice answered instantly, as though he'd just been waiting for Rob to call, even though it had been months since their last –

  (attempted)

  – job. "New score?"

  "Yeah," said Rob. "But we gotta hit it fast. Can you get the records this late?"

  He could practically hear Tommy's grin. "You cover the extra charge, I'll get what you need."

  Rob gave Tommy the address he'd seen on Jason's ID. Tommy repeated it, then hung up without wasting time on goodbyes.

  Rob steeled himself.

  Made the call he didn't want to. But there was no real alternative.

  Unlike Tommy, this voice sounded insecure. Sleepy, like he'd been woken from an early bedtime.

  "Hello?" said Aaron.

  10

  Nikki Peters was overworked, underpaid, and sadly aware of both facts.

  Working at Building and Safety Records was a crappy job on its face, but after her first day she realized that there were several different levels of crap. There was normal crap, which everyone had to deal with sometime.

  Then there was grotesque, awful, never-ending crap. Like you've sampled every bit of half-rotted food from every street vendor in every third-world country on the earth.

  BSR was the second kind.

  When she got the job, she was grateful – it beat continued unemployment, which was where she had landed after… borrowing a bit of petty cash from the office she used to work in. But that was only when she got the job. After actually doing the job, the gratitude turned to bitterness.

  Life had crapped on her again. The number two of all number twos. And worst of all, there was nothing she could do about it. She owed too much money to too many people – some of them not exactly legitimate businessmen, but the kind of people who took out interest in broken bones or worse – to quit.

  BSR existed in that no-man's land between the warring states of Boredom and Overstressed. Half her time was spent archiving old documents – soil reports, plot plans, approved building plans, board files, admin approvals, and a host of other papers which could each induce fugue states upon reading.

  The other half of her time she dealt with irritable contractors, angry auditors, and pretentious lawyers – all of whom were her bosses since she was a public employee.

  Still, she kept her head down. She worked hard. She resisted the urge to punt her supervisor in the nuts every time he leered at her or implied that a quick screw in his office would be just the thing to loosen her up. She even smiled at least twice a day because she had read somewhere that smiling was the best revenge.

  But no matter how hard she worked, she never made any headway. She still lived in a studio apartment directly over a bar, which meant she was awakened at least ten times a night by either the muted sounds of a fight or the less-muted sounds of someone playing Piña Colada on the juke. She still bought booze at the liquor store whose main decoration was periodic banners of police tape whenever someone got rolled out front.

  Part of the situation, she admitted on long sleepless nights listening to the drunks, was her own fault. She gambled too much, and as a result she owed money at interest rates so high there was no way she'd ever be able to pay down the princ
iple – not unless her lottery investments came in. And even there she always bought the twenty dollar scratchers since she knew they came with better odds.

  Mostly, though… mostly it wasn't her fault. Mostly it was someone else's – though she wasn't exactly sure whose. There was just that aching sense that if only she could get one small score, she could figure out a way out of the crap life she currently endured.

  With all that, the first time Tommy Leigh approached her and not-so-subtly implied he might be willing to float her a bit of cash in exchange for a look at certain of the approved building plans – unlogged, so no one would know they'd ever been viewed outside the office – it was a no-brainer.

  The cash had been less than she supposed it would be. She had visions of supplying info to some high-level mobster or master criminal who would easily thumb thousand-dollar bills off a thick wad of cash, then maybe – if he was good-looking enough – invite her back to his place for discussions of what other "business" they might do together.

  Instead, she got a couple hundred – barely enough to buy her scratchers.

  They were enough to pay off her loan shark's interest for another week, though, so she took the cash with a smile and let Tommy know she would be happy to help him out in the future.

  She didn't offer anything more than that. It wasn't that Tommy was bad looking. Even after he showed up once with a trio of bright scars that slashed through his skin from over his right eye to a spot mid-cheek, he still looked sexy enough. He was a big guy, and she guessed he had biceps that could crush ball bearings into smaller ball bearings. A perfect bod for some all-night roller coaster riding.

  But there was something in his eyes. He smiled at her, he was always pleasant. Yet she got the feeling that if she ever invited him back to her place, the games they played wouldn't be pleasant for her. There was something dangerous about him – something that made her think if he owed money to a shark, said shark would just smile and bow and say, "No interest – you just pay it back when you feel like it, friend."

  She looked forward to his visits in spite of the danger, though. Money was money.