He began to realize that the ache inside him was really more of a craving. He needed something… Something to brighten this reality.
How had Jody put it?
A little chemical help after a confusing day.
He was looking at Lester Wood's travel case sitting on the blue carpet, not five feet away. He wondered if Wood had found a way to smuggle one of his little Baggies past Jody's inspection. Or maybe he had found a connection in Palm Springs and hooked himself up, scored some polvo bianco. So Shane stretched his foot out around the case and began to nudge it closer.
"You banged the bitch, didn't ya?" Victory interrupted his thoughts, dropping into the chair in front of Shane. "I told ya t'leave her be."
"Get away from me," Shane said softly.
"I told ya not t'fuck 'er."
"I don't take my orders from you, Vic. 'Sides, with all those anabols and oxys you pop, you couldn't lay a carpet."
"Gonna teach you a lesson, then blow yer worthless head off." Smith was sitting with his huge legs spread out in front of him, leaning back in the chair, acting as if all of this was his choice and on his terms.
Shane shifted his right foot and let it fly… kicking the steroid junkie right between the legs.
The weight lifter screamed in agony, doubled over in the chair, then dropped to his knees on the carpet, moaning. His left hand cradled his balls, but his right was snaking toward the Uzi tucked into his belt.
Shane yanked the Mini-Cougar out of his ankle holster, pushed it toward Smith, thumbing off the safety as he slammed the muzzle hard into the man's simian forehead. Shane beat Smith's draw by a full second. Victory was caught with one hand on his nuts and the other on his half-drawn Uzi.
"Go on. Bust a move. Let's see what ya got," Shane whispered. He could actually feel the weight lifter's heartbeat pulsing through the muzzle of the Beretta.
Jody exploded out of the bedroom and in an instant was standing over them, his own Mini-Light pulled and chambered. Shane could feel the motor home gearing down as Tremaine Lane slowed, turning around to see the drama that was playing out behind him.
"Put it down, Shane," Jody ordered.
"Him first."
"Unhook, or I'11 lose the both a'ya right now," Jody commanded.
"This ape's been threatening me for two days. I want this over with," Shane demanded.
"Fuck you," Smith said.
Jody fired his Mini-Light. It was on auto-fire, and half a dozen bullets ripped holes in the carpet between them. The rounds blew chunks out of the floor of the motor home and ricocheted off the pavement below, then whined away across the desert. Somehow, miraculously, nothing hit the gas tank or driveshaft. The insanity of the event carried the moment.
Victory Smith let go of his weapon and put both hands out to his side.
Shane still didn't take the Mini-Cougar off the giant's pockmarked forehead. He found himself actually contemplating pulling the trigger, his fingers twitching inadvertently on the cold steel. Then he finally saw fear in Smith's eyes.
In that second, Shane knew he owned the man. He'd have to risk death to pull the trigger because Jody really might take him out, but Shane was seriously tempted to end it-
kill Victory and let Jody shoot him for it. It was Shane's call in that split second, and everybody knew it.
And then Shane felt it.
Jody was right. There was a spark of pure joy in this simple equation. It emanated from Victory across the two feet of bullet-torn carpet into Shane. He saw the fear of imminent death register in Smith's pig-mean stare. Shane desperately wanted to seal his own fate. He couldn't remain caught between what he used to be and what he was becoming. He needed to be one thing or the other.
Jody reached out and slowly pushed Shane's wrist aside, shoving the gun away from Victory's sweat-slick forehead. "This ain't it, Hot Sauce."
And then it was over.
"This pile a'shit gets near me again, I'm gonna put him down." Shane's voice, as well as his whole body, was shaking.
Victory was still on his knees, rocking slightly back and forth on the bullet-ravaged blue shag carpet, cupping his balls in both hands. "Lose this motherfucker, Jody," the weight lifter whispered. "There's a five-state manhunt for him. He's poison. Get rid of him."
Jody didn't respond. Instead, he reached down and yanked Smith's Uzi up off the floor. "Let's have yours, too," he said sharply to Shane.
Shane shook his head and put the gun back into his ankle holster. Then he walked to the back of the motor home, into the bedroom, and kicked the door shut. He sat on the queen-size bed with his head in his hands. He could hear the others talking low, as the vehicle once again picked up speed. Jody's voice was louder than the others. Shane couldn't make out the words, but he could feel the vibe right through the paneled bulkhead. Jody was scared. They had started pulling guns on each other, and he was losing control. The mix had turned dangerous, with a strong suicidal flavor.
The gray mist settled lower, engulfing Shane inch by inch. He had been half an ounce of a trigger pull away from murder. Half an ounce from putting a round through Peter Smith's head.
It was exactly what Jody had talked about: getting a guy down, seeing that look-the look making you feel pure and alive, but also driving you… Pushing you. In Victory's weakness, he felt rage; in his total surrender came a surge of unreasoning violence.
He remembered a saying from somewhere but couldn't recall where it came from… Perhaps a Sunday school lecture, or maybe just some barroom psychologist: When a man is severely tested, only then does he discover who he really is.
So who the fuck am I? Shane wondered.
Chapter 31
HOUSE IN THE VALLEY
IT WAS ALMOST eight P. M.
Jody told them they wouldn't be needing the blue-and-white motor home, so they spent twenty minutes wiping their prints off every surface, then left it in a pay lot off Ventura Boulevard and walked four blocks to the Sherman Oaks Inn, on Valley Vista. As they climbed the stairs to the second-floor room, Shane could see the orange-and-black Charger in the adjoining lot, parked next to an unmarked blue step van.
The room Jody led them into was several notches up from the one in Sunland. The two-room studio apartment was colorless, decorated in beige and brown. The furniture was new and nobody had left cigarette burns on the wood or vomit stains on the carpet.
They had said very little since the incident in the motor home. Victory Smith had remained silent, his eyes furtive and brooding. But the one time that Shane had locked stares with him, he saw hatred so intense that it froze him momentarily. Jody must have sensed trouble, because he'd kept Victory's Uzi locked in the motor home.
Lester Wood, whom Shane had learned was born in southern Texas and was fluent in Spanish, moved to the phone, took out a slip of paper with a telephone number scribbled on it, and dialed. He spoke quietly in Spanish, then a few moments later hung up. "That was one a'her Spic bodyguards. Juanita's on the way."
"Wait'll you see this bitch, Hot Sauce. Real guapitay but hard as asphalt. The spill on her is, she's already dropped six guys. She's Raphael Bacca's niece."
Jody turned to the other Vikings. "Because Rodriquez is gone, we gotta change the lineup. Inky Dink, you're driving backup. Stay at least two blocks back; use the GPS. Hot Sauce, you're with Tremaine. Victory, you're in the gray van with Sawdust."
"I don't wanna stay with the fucking monitors," Smith growled.
"I don't give a shit what you want, that's the way it's going down."
"What monitors?" Shane asked.
"The white step van parked in the lot down there is the one we're using to pick up the cash. It has three pin-cams mounted on it. Tiny little bastards're about the size of a shirt button. One is on the back of the rearview mirror, shooting out the front window. Gives us a wide shot. One's in the grille, pointing down; one is mounted under the bumper, looking back."
"Why?"
"I wanna know where they keep the cash. Since I'm gonna be
a hostage and blindfolded, the cameras will tape the whole deal. Send the pictures to the monitors we got in the gray van."
"Once they give the money to us, what's it matter where they keep it?" Shane asked.
"A guy I know in SIS is gonna get the videotape mailed anonymously. We'll be long gone, but Juanita and her band a scumball ladrones are gonna face an SIS hard takedown. Most greaseballs don't survive those." He smiled at Shane. "I don't want any cholos left behind to point a finger at us, pick us outta some picture lineup."
Tremaine Lane suddenly walked out of the room, and Shane wondered where he was going.
They waited.
The Colombians arrived at a little past eight-thirty. There was a knock on the door, and Victory got up to open it.
"Hola," one of the men outside said softly.
"Yeah, right," Smith growled. "How's yer asshole?" He stepped aside, letting them into the room.
There were two men and a woman, and as Jody had promised, Juanita Bacca was quite a package: shoulder-length, shiny black hair framed a dusky complexion and deep almond eyes. She was wearing a long black skirt wrapped tightly around her slender waist, slit in the middle almost to her crotch.
Jody nodded to her. "Juanita. Como esta?"
She didn't acknowledge him; instead, she rattled some Spanish at the two men standing behind her, who immediately separated and flanked her protectively.
It was then that Shane got his first good look at both bodyguards. The one on the right was going to be big trouble. He was six-foot-two, unusually tall for a Colombian, and had flat, uninteresting features. The tattoos on his neck ran down into his open shirt collar. His name was Octavio Juarez, and Shane had busted him three or four times when he'd been working with the Valley Vice team. As soon as Octavio spotted Shane, he nudged Juanita.
"Ay, cabrdnf Es cuico, " he whispered.
In a second, everyone had a gun out, including Juanita Bacca, who squatted slightly and grabbed between her legs through the folds of her split skirt. A spring-release holster chimed loudly, a chrome-plated.45 caliber Hardballer suddenly appeared in her hand.
They all held position, glaring over gun sights. No one seemed jittery, either… Just another day at the office. Then Tremaine Lane appeared from the corridor behind them and tromboned the slide on his auto-mag. The sound brought the first flicker of fear into the faces of the two black-eyed bodyguards, but they didn't turn or flinch. Only Juanita's and Jody's eyes hadn't changed; both were prepared to go down.
Victory Smith, unarmed, was standing in a crouch, his huge mitts helplessly out in front of him.
Juanita rattled something in Spanish to Octavio.
"Si," he replied. "Esta cerote me puse en el bote.››
"Hey, in English!" Jody demanded.
Shane spoke enough street Spanish to know Octavio had said, "This piece of shit put me in jail." And it was true. Octavio was a good bodyguard but a less-than-gifted street dealer who kept selling drugs to Valley Vice cops throughout the mid-nineties. Shane had roughed him up three times in one eleven-month period. A Valley Division record.
"Tu companero es policia, " Juanita said suspiciously to Jody.
"He says what? A cop? You're nuts!" Jody was stalling.
"Jody, go buy this bitch a newspaper 'cause I'm all over the front page," Shane said.
"That's right," Jody brightened. "Tremaine, we got these greaseballs covered. Go down to the lobby, get the L. A. Times." He motioned at Shane. "He's wanted by the cops for the murder of a police officer. Tell her, Sawdust." Lester Wood rattled the translation at Juanita.
"No… Miguely vete!" Juanita said, motioning to a bodyguard who was holding a Tech 9 on Shane and Jody. She barked something else in Spanish, then Miguel backed out of the room past Tremaine.
"Inky Dink. Go with him!" Tremaine followed. They were all left standing in the room, gripping their iron, hoping nobody would get nervous and squeeze off a round by mistake.
A minute or two later, Miguel reentered the room with a copy of the Los Angeles Times and handed it to Juanita. Tremaine appeared in the threshold behind him.
On the front page, above the fold, was a picture of Shane, along with the story of the murder of Alexa Hamilton. Juanita scanned the paper quickly, looked at the picture, glanced up at Shane, then over at Jody, her beautiful face composed in a silent question.
"He's not a cop anymore," Jody explained. "Jamas policia. He's wanted for murder… He's with us now." He looked at Sawdust helplessly. "Is she getting any of this?"
Lester Wood rattled off a long sentence. Then all of them seemed to be talking at once. Finally Juanita lowered her Hardballer, and the others followed suit.
"Tienes los numeros? Te los did mi tio?" she asked.
Shane knew about "los numeros" from other drug stings he'd worked. She was asking Jody for a secret number given by the cartel boss to both parties involved in a street transaction. Bacca was the cartel boss, and this was his money. The ID number was proof of his consent that the cash could be turned over to the Vikings. Since there were no contracts protecting the transfer, it was Jody's knowledge of this code that enabled Juanita to hand over millions of narco-dollars with no questions.
"The number? Yeah… It's 457, from Raphael," Jody said.
"Cuatro cinco siete por Raphael," Lester said.
"Okay. Vamos. Usted solamente/' Juanita ordered, pointing at Jody.
"Absolutely." Jody smiled. "Me only." The tension in the room had eased slightly.
"Vamos en su coche," she said to Jody. Adding in horrible English: "We load. For is done. You go back. Es suficiente?"
"Works for me." Jody smiled at her again. "You guys wait here."
"Dame los llaves." She turned to Miguel. "Como se dice?"
"She wants the keys to our car," Shane said.
"Si, " Juanita answered. "Keys."
"It's the blue step van in the lot downstairs," Jody said to Miguel as he handed him the keys. The bodyguard immediately left the room.
Through all of this, the still-suspicious Octavio Juarez never took his eyes off Shane, not for a moment believing that a cop who had hooked him up three times in one year was now a fugitive.
"Let's do it," Jody said.
Juanita and Octavio flanked Jody, and with no further discussion, they walked out of the room and closed the door, leaving the rest of the Vikings behind.
"Why're we waiting? Let's get outta here," Shane said after they were gone. He moved to the door, but Lester and Tremaine were still at the windows, watching as the step van, followed by a new black Cadillac, pulled out of the lot.
"Be cool," Tremaine said to Shane. "With this satellite rig, we can tail them from miles back… It shoots a tracking signal back to us from outer space."
They waited for almost three minutes before Tremaine nodded and Shane opened the door. They walked out of the apartment, down the stairs, and into the parking lot. Shane and Tremaine climbed into the black GMC truck with the pool-cleaning logo on the side. Victory Smith and Lester Wood got into the windowless gray van with the monitors. Tremaine had already switched on the dash-mounted GPS: a map of the entire West Valley downloaded onto the LCD screen. Then they saw a small blip moving near the center of the readout, indicating the route the step van was taking. It was heading east, down the Ventura Freeway toward Studio City.
"Let's go. That's them," Tremaine said. Then he pulled out. The gray van, with Victory driving, followed right behind them.
"Where'd you get all this high-tech stuff?" Shane asked.
"Rod stole it from SWAT. They got the best shit," Tremaine answered, his deep voice resonating in the sound-deadened cab.
They were on the freeway now, following the flashing dot on the GPS, heading east. The white step van was at least a mile ahead of them.
Shane looked over at Tremaine, his shaved head glistening, reflecting the passing freeway lights.
Of all the Vikings, Shane thought Tremaine was the most puzzling. The ex-SWAT sergeant had a coo
l intelligence and natural leadership that he masked with profound silences, mixed with spurts of ghetto-speak. But every time he spoke, Victory, Lester, and sometimes even Jody stopped talking and were suddenly alert, like street punks listening to a distant siren.
Tremaine glanced over and caught Shane looking at him. "Whattcha think you starin' at?" he demanded angrily.
"Nothin'." Shane shifted his gaze to the LCD screen. They rode in silence for a minute.
"Why don't you get it the fuck off your mind," Tremaine suddenly said.
"You know this is coming unglued," Shane said. "Two guys already dead and buried. Victory's a mess. Sawdust doesn't give a shit, and Jody's on autopilot. You saw him back there, ready to swap lead with a buncha street dealers."
Tremaine continued driving, and a slight smile passed across his face, then disappeared, barely visible, like a shadow on a dark wall. He shook his head slowly. "You got it all worked out, huh?"
"So when it all comes apart, then what?"
"You best slow yer roll, Chuck. You don't know me… You 'bout t'make a bad mistake here."
"I'll tell you something else I'm wondering."
They drove in silence, the target vehicle flashing on the LCD screen between them, heading down the curving freeway map, being measured from deep space by a satellite while Tremaine drove and said nothing.
"All these other guys've got Sawdust's shitty pictures drawn all over 'em" Shane said. "You… You've got no ink… No nothin'. Not even the little Viking helmet. I'm thinking. Why is that? It raises questions."
Tremaine didn't look over at Shane, but he had lost the slight smile. His knuckles gripped the wheel hard as he drove.
"Tell you something else," Shane continued. "You hate being called Tnky Dink.' Every time Jody calls you that, it's like you got kicked in the ass. So I'm wondering how come you put up with it; why you lettin' Jody Tom' you like that."
The Viking Funeral ss-2 Page 17
