“My kinda girl.” Radford moved closer as they neared the steps.
Collins suddenly stopped. “Y’know. Fuck this snobbery bullshit. Let’s find a club. Somewhere cheap and low where the drinks only cost twenty bucks or so. Hey, Radford might even get hooked up.”
“You’re saying I couldn’t get hooked up here?”
“Dunno. Could you?”
Trent pulled them out of the way of the stream of pedestrian traffic. The hullabaloo of excited tourists and holidaymakers surrounded them. Cameras flashed and parents tried to bribe their kids into being good for just a little while longer.
“On a serious note,” Trent said, “Dan does have a girl here.”
“Girl,” Collins repeated. “Figures.”
Radford’s face fell. He stared at Trent as if asking why. “I thought we had a plan.”
“We do. But you can’t go on like this. Make a goddamn move.”
Now Radford’s face told Trent to shut the hell up.
Collins was an FBI agent. She knew when something was going down. “Say what?”
Trent bit his lip for a second, unsure whether to go on. Dan had been dithering around this for far too long. It was time to man up and the only way Trent could see that happening was through force.
“Time to come out of the closet, Dan.”
Now Collins’ face almost hit the floor. “No way! Ohmigod. You gotta be—”
Radford shot Trent a murderous glance and then turned to look at Collins. “No, I’m not. But I do love my wife and I want a reconciliation. Of sorts.”
Collins squinted. “That’s what I thought. What else could it be?”
“Hence,” Radford kept his eyes on the ground, “no women.”
“But isn’t she banging that candy-eyed movie star? Y’know, the one with the U-shaped penis?”
“What? How the hell would I know what his—”
“Sorry. I just thought you guys shared everything.”
“How would you know?” Trent put in, catching Collins’ eye.
“I’m FBI.”
“Of course. Silly me.”
“And as for you, Dan Radford. What’s wrong with you? First you corrupt the girl and now you want her back the way she was. Doesn’t work that way, babe.”
“I didn’t corrupt Amanda.”
“Didn’t you?”
Radford tried but couldn’t hold Collins’ stare. He turned, put his hand against a rigid palm tree, and looked down. The earth yielded up no answers. Fuck! What right did he have to ask her to change her life?
“Let’s just forget it,” he said, not looking around. “This is my life. My problem. And Collins, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t repeat any of this. To anyone.”
“Hey, we FBI agents apply total discretion,” she said evenly. “Won’t stop me busting your balls over it though.”
“And Trent, just because you wear your problems on your sleeve doesn’t mean we all want to. Just look at Silk. When it came down to it, the real deal, he cut us out. It’s private, man. Personal.”
Trent watched his friend’s back move away. Collins caught his eye and the two of them followed a few steps behind. The silence surrounded them like a shroud, cutting through the jovial throng and leaving a gulf of misery in their wake.
Collins leaned in to whisper in Trent’s ear. “Y’think he still wants to hit the dance floor with me?”
30
Los Angeles simmered through the night. Silk sat alone in the small but agreeable hotel room. Despite the danger he couldn’t quite bring himself to pick one of the local, more impersonal dives. His slumming days were over. God knew he’d gone through enough destitute years.
He didn’t drink or eat; he sat and listened. Grew accustomed to the sound of the hotel, the street outside, the sidewalk and the comings and goings in the corner shop across the road. The city had a pulse, a heartbeat; you just had to attune. Then, if anything changed . . .
As he listened his mind reviewed the latest facts. If his little group had only gelled for three months chances were a stint of forced recollection might pay dividends.
I can’t. I can’t go back to those times.
Do it. Whatever you’ve locked away, whatever nightmare fears are down there, burying them isn’t going to make them disappear.
Neither is facing them.
True. But what other chance at redemption do you have?
Redemption? Never.
Then do it for the memory of Tanya Jazz.
Silk sighed aloud. Everything always came back to that. And now there was the future of Susie Brewster to think about. She had laid an awful lot on the line to help him.
All right. Let’s do it.
But his subconscious didn’t go back three months. It wanted more. He went back to the beginning.
*
1990:
Twelve-year-old Adam Silk loved his father. He loved his mother too, but the bond he had with his father was stronger. Deeper. His dad was different. Some of the other kids spoke of their dads actually hitting them, or shouting or swearing or threatening until their sons fell into line. This mostly involved being confined to their bedrooms whilst their dads enjoyed some quiet time. This went for moms too. Adam had known more than one of his friends get knocked about the bedroom for playing too loudly or ‘messing this goddamn place up again’. So Adam counted himself lucky. When his dad requested a ‘quick blast’ at the Scalextric before dinner, Adam cheered. When his parents asked him to wash the dirty dishes he got straight on with it. When they said they’d take him to Six Flags he knew they meant it.
But it was the nights they spent together that were the best. Curled up as a family across the sofa, watching a rerun of Hawaii Five-O or Magnum, laughing at the old clothes and cars, humming along to the old tunes. It was during one of these nights that Adam, at twelve, would have his love wrenched away forever. It was fate. It was design. It was the end of all good things.
The night that shaped the rest of his life began like any other. It was Friday. School was out. Dad was singing that very song, trying to sound like that old dude—Alice Cooper—and mom was tutting whilst unable to hide a wide grin. Adam played air guitar. Eventually his mom threw a tea towel at his dad. The wet rag stuck to his face, stopping his awful chorus, and Adam folded over laughing. It was good. Earlier that day the class bully—Fred Prince—had stomped his foot just for a laugh and Adam had cried. Now that hurt was long gone. Far in the past. Soothed over with love and just general goofing around. Adam didn’t even hear the knock at the door.
His mom did. “Who’s that? Jack, tell them we’re about to eat, whoever it is. They’ll understand.”
His dad tidied himself and nodded. Adam watched him walk across the kitchen. It was his last memory of ever seeing his dad happy; his own final thoughts of security and family and total, unbreakable trust.
Then came the sound of the door opening. His father’s voice. A crash. A shout. Deep, hard voices swearing. The bad men invaded his home. The ones who hit their children and sent them to their rooms to cry. The ones who offered such terrible verbal abuse that they changed their kids’ very lives, turning their happiness into gloom, their confidence into timidity, their young carefree spirit into dust. Adam backed away and his mom stood before him. She reached for the phone.
His dad tumbled into view, falling to the floor. His mom screamed. Three masked men surged past him, seeing his mom and shouting awful things at her. Adam cowered. His mom tried to take him into her arms, but they tore her away. Adam was left reaching, alone. They threw her down next to his dad. They made his parents kneel in the middle of the living room floor, their living room. The same place that had only previously seen love, laughter and happiness. Could everything really change that fast? Adam sobbed. One of the men came over, eyes laughing behind the mask. He pointed the barrel of his weapon at Adam’s temple. His mom screamed, his dad cried out, and then there was a dreadful crunch. Adam risked a glance around his terrorizer and saw his dad
lying on the floor, not moving. A thick red pool was forming around his head.
The men were laughing, looking down at his mom, gathering. They shouted in her face and laughed. They asked for money, car keys and jewels. They pointed their guns at Adam. His mom gave them everything they asked for and more. Adam buried his face into the carpet, crying; for the first time in his young life actually wishing he was dead. From this moment on it wouldn’t be the last. Then the men had everything they needed and spent one last moment destroying whatever hope remained in his young, spirited heart.
They shot his mother dead.
As they left, still laughing, Adam crawled towards his parents and his dad’s outstretched hand.
*
Silk woke shivering, sweat coating his body and turned cold by the air conditioning that he’d cranked too high. He sat in the bed, eyes flicking to the door and seeing it locked, then turning back inwards, searching the ruins of his soul. His goal had been to summon up memories of the time he’d spent with his little crew, not the night his mom and dad had died.
Now what? He climbed off the bed and walked to the window. The predawn skies were illuminating the city, chasing away the shadows of the night and all that ran with them. Silk turned his mind to Tanya Jazz. He couldn’t remember jack shit. Tanya had always been the memory woman. Ask her anything and she could recite it back to you, often word for word. Damn, she’d been good at that. Silk wished he could ask her one last favor, one last memory for the road.
Wait!
There was a reason Tanya had been able to remember all that shit, and it wasn’t because she had a photographic memory. It was because she wrote everything down.
In her diary.
Could it be? Has Tanya saved me yet again, all the way from her new home?
“We’re drifters, Tanya,” he said aloud to the vast and beautiful and violent city. “Always will be. Our real homes and bonds long gone. I hope you’ve found peace, love, because I doubt that I ever will.”
Quickly, he began to dress.
*
Silk parked outside Roley’s less than thirty minutes later. The streets behind him were all but empty. No sign of a tail and nowhere to hide at this hour. Roley’s was in darkness, but Silk had called ahead and as he padded up the drive the door slid open.
“Hey, man.”
“Hey,” Silk said, slipping inside.
“Guess this means you haven’t cracked the case.”
Silk took in the drawn blinds, the darkness, the rank smell of sweat. Roley wasn’t doing well. “Have the cops been in touch?”
“Not even a little.”
“They’re supposed to offer counselling.”
“Oh, some fat guy left a card on the table. Didn’t bother to explain.”
“Sounds like Reggie.”
“Who’s Reggie?”
“Doesn’t matter. Listen, Roley, I had a thought. Did Tanya bring any of her old stuff here? You know, anything from her past life before you guys met?”
“There’s a box of her stuff up in the attic.”
Silk’s heart leapt. “There is? Can I go see?”
“Sure. If it’ll help.”
“Thanks. And Roley?”
“Yep?”
“Crack the windows and the door. Air this place out a bit. And crank up that stove. How about mixing up a stack of those breakfast pancakes Mauricio’s is famous for?”
Roley seemed surprised. “I guess. Is it really that bad in here?”
“You bet it is.”
Silk turned and climbed the stairs, studying the attic door. In a moment he had it raised and a set of folding steps was unfurling. Carefully he ascended and tugged on the pull cord. Bare light illuminated the attic. He squatted for a minute, letting his eyes adjust. The loft space was cramped and stifling, making him thankful he was doing this before the sun started to really break through. Old boxes were dotted about, spanning the joists so they wouldn’t fall through. Silk crept forward and checked the nearest, pretty sure that Tanya’s would be the most remote. She kept her memories, yes, but she wouldn’t want to be reminded of them too often.
Dust clogged the air. Splinters reached for his unsuspecting wrists as he shuffled by, jabbing painfully. At last, Silk reached a tattered old box, the top partly ripped and thickly taped. There were no labels, no identifying marks, only a faded blue logo that Silk didn’t recognize. Something from the old days, long gone.
Now that he was so close to Tanya’s old memories he actually started to tremble. He sat back. It was more than dredging up the past. It was reliving it, minute by minute, and with the insane knowledge that the one person who had saved his ass almost every day back then was now dead.
He ripped the tape apart, unfolded the edges of the box and looked inside. Tanya’s old life lay before him. A discarded t-shirt, white with ripped sleeves. He remembered her wearing it. He remembered the shop she’d lifted it from and the day she did it. His mind flew back in time. He reached down and held it up, put it to his face and closed his eyes.
Tanya . . .
A wetness gathered at the corner of his eyes. He put the t-shirt aside and looked again. The ragged old Pooh Bear was from when Tanya had a family and it had survived the thief house because it was in such a sorry state. But was it? Tanya always used to say the toys that showed the most wear received the most love. But it was the opposite with people. That tired old man walking down the street next to you, the one with the lived-in face and thousand-yard stare. The one with the permanently downturned mouth. That old man didn’t have a lot of happy memories to cling to.
Would that be Silk in thirty years?
Why is it, he thought, that you never know the good times whilst they’re happening? Why do they change and pass by before you even realize?
Gently, he lifted out the stuffed bear and put it on top of the t-shirt. These were the things Tanya should be buried with. It would mean a lot to her. Now he saw her old flashlight and her diary. A jolt ran through him as he remembered those treasured times when she read her thoughts aloud, just for him, and a few tears fell.
He reached down and pulled out the diary. His throat closed up. He sniffed and had to lay it on his knees. May the worst days of your future be better than the best days of your past. He opened the cover. Her writing jolted him once more, as well as the way she wrote. It was how she spoke. It was her.
Tanya. As close as he would ever come again.
Determined to see this through, Silk put the nostalgia aside and read on. Every page hit him anew. Every thought and comment struck a chord in him. This might well be one of the hardest things he’d ever done. The writing laid out many days, and many events. Some Silk recalled, others he did not. When he found the part where she had joined Rydell, Finch and Knott and, later, Silk, he slowed down. The scene where they met was there, her prose telling how Freddie Knott had threatened a scared mother, her words scathing. The fight with Lemmy was there. An altercation with Coleman. How she had hidden to escape Lemmy a second time. Silk never knew. An hour passed. Silk lost track of time. The pancakes went cold. Nothing else mattered except right here. Tanya’s world. The reminiscences of glory days.
Passed by. All gone, never to return.
Silk’s glistening eyes roved back and forth for page after page. He smiled. Laughed. Cried. And then he stopped reading. He reread the passage again. He sat back. Looked up at the slanted joists of the loft, the spider webs between, the insulation bulging out of the walls.
Could it be?
The Seager guy?
He read on, then his heart almost stopped. Here was something else Tanya had never read aloud, never told them. Here it was. The fucking mother lode. Right here, in this attic, almost lost forever along with their glory days. The game changer.
“Fucking Freddie Knott,” he said aloud. “You fucked us all.”
He read the entire passage again, the memories coming back to him. The day had been like any other, the gang foraging for their quota in every w
ay they knew how. Knott had led them to a quiet neighborhood, stating that he’d been told there were richer pickings here. Tanya had written that she saw no shops, just homes, and had started to worry right then. They had all known about Knott’s knife and his desperate need to use it.
By nightfall they’d been desperate. The quota was short. When a family of four had appeared: mother, father, son, daughter, Knott had sprung into action. By the time anyone knew what was going down Knott had been brandishing a knife and the family had looked terrified. The father had stood up to them, perhaps reading the doubt and fear in Tanya or Silk’s eyes, but Knott had played to the crowd, swinging his blade and talking crap like he’d heard the junkies talk. When the father had challenged him, Knott had sliced him hard. The father had gone down, crying. Blubbering. The wife had come over to help him. The father had screamed and crawled into a corner, blood seeping through his fingers, pushing her away. Knott had gone to stand over him; the big man, laughing and ridiculing. He had stolen the guy’s wallet, pricking him again. They’d tried to take the woman’s nice jewellery, but had succeeded only in snatching her handbag. Then they’d run. Hard. Fast. Got the hell out of there and never gone back.
Over. Done. The family would pick up the pieces and get over it. Everyone got mugged at least once, right?
But what if they hadn’t?
Silk thought hard. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t have put this together. But it was the drawing on the next page that floored him.
The sketch that Tanya had later drawn of the woman’s nice jewellery. And her pendant.
It was the same exact shape as the pendant that had been smashed into her forehead.
31
Silk needed to do some research, but it had to be done accurately and carefully. His first call was to Brewster. They chose the closest Denny’s. When he arrived Silk was shocked to feel how hungry he was. When he spied the time he checked again just to be sure. The morning had gone and so had lunchtime.
The Disavowed Book 2 - In Harm's Way Page 13
