The Lot
Chapter One
Some stories start nice. You know - once upon a time, there was an old man from Nantucket. This one starts with me getting my teeth kicked in.
The guy doing the kicking was named Braxton - I don't recall his first, but that was probably because his fist was busy knocking it out of my head. I took another punch, staggered back, and spit out blood. My eye ached - I think he had cracked my skull - and my vision was starting to go blurry. Still, it was good enough to see the 300-pound behemoth coming at me, so I did what anybody would do. I kicked him in the balls.
Funny thing about a kick in the crotch - it'll stop anybody in their tracks, no matter if they're as small as a Honda, or the size of small house. He made a squeak like someone had pinched Minnie Mouse's ass, clutched his berries, and dropped to his knees. So I did the next logical thing. I kneed him under the chin and watched him fall.
He dropped to the ground like a felled Sequoia, and I limped over and slapped cuffs on him. The bar cheered. I grinned, and spat out a tooth, and thought about how much of the reward money I was going to have to spend on dental work.
*
The cops were grateful. Not grateful enough to make the ticket someone had slapped on my Cavalier while I was skip-tracing the Biblical leviathan disappear, but they paid at least one bill for the week. After, I went to the office to do some paperwork and lay some ice on my throbbing head. I heal quickly, but it still hurts.
I leaned back in my chair and eyeballed the drawer in the bottom of the desk. There was a bottle there with at least three fingers of whiskey still in it, next to a highball glass. I also knew it was still early in the day. A sigh escaped me, and I decided against the drink.
I looked at the door to my office, frosted glass muting the hall light; stenciled letters backwards from where I sat.
Sam Peckinpah, P.I.
Not named after the director. I caught myself explaining that more often than I cared to, so when I can, I just go by Peck. Short, and to the point, works best for me.
A shadow darkened the glass in the door, masking the stencil. At first glance, I guessed about six foot, probably male. The knob turned, and the man walked in. I caught the sound of hard heels on the linoleum, and the scents of aftershave, hair product, and cologne that was subtle, yet pleasing. It probably cost more per ounce than my shoes, total.
The man cleared the threshold, and the door closed, cutting off the sounds of chatter and keyboards from the office down the hall. He was at least six foot - my senses hadn't steered me wrong. He was graying at the temples, with an angular face that said he worked out a lot, and a suit that said he could afford a tailor to show it off.
He walked over to my desk and sat in the chair opposite with an ease that spoke of confidence, and a habit of owning the things around him outright. He eyed me for a minute, not saying a word, and then extended his hand, gold rings on at least two fingers.
"Calvin Reznick, Mr. Peckinpah. Nice to meet you." He paused, and a small smile lifted the corner of his mouth. "Peckinpah - like the director?"
I sighed internally, but took the hand and shook it. It was a big hand, with hard calluses on the palm. It was the hand of a man who'd done hard work in his life. Hair covered the back of it, and I could smell some sort of moisturizer. I dropped the shake, and Reznick sat back in his chair.
I eyed his suit again, and thought of the firm, rough grip. Hard hands, expensive suit. Not a guy to cross. Probably not a guy who earned those calluses from throwing crates at the docks. Definitely a guy who, even now, knew I could see the bulge under his jacket, and didn't care.
"How can I help you, Mr. Reznick?" I said, though I was already trying to figure out how to put this man off. Scary, and already the director question. Two strikes. I needed money, but maybe not bad enough to reenact the traffic ticket incident. Maybe not bad enough to have my knees broken.
Reznick's face went still, and a shadow passed over his eyes. "My son." He said after a moment. "He's missing."
I opened my mouth to ask a question, and Reznick held up a hand. I closed my mouth.
"One of the lots." He reached into his suit jacket, and I tensed. He pulled out two photos, and I reminded myself to unclench. He handed them to me, and I took a look.
One was of a boy, no older than twelve, thirteen, with the same dark hair and eyes as his father, an arm around another boy. They both wore t-shirts and jeans and easy smiles in front of a studio. The other photo was of a back lot, one I recognized immediately. A castle on a hill, a winding road that passed through suburbs, and a movie theater in the foreground. The Lot. My stomach sank.
"Mind if I keep these?" I asked.
"Please." Reznick said.
"Anything else I should know?"
Reznick shook his head. "It's all I've got. The boy's been missing for less than a day. I know it's entirely possible he'll wander home, but I want to get a jump on the search, if not."
Something occurred to me. I opened my mouth to ask the question, but he beat me to the punch.
"Why not the police?"
I nodded.
"They already know. I'm doubling down, so to speak."
My stomach dropped a little. Cops on the Lot. That could get complicated.
I was trying to figure out how to broach the subject of my retainer when Reznick spoke again.
"I can pay your retainer, plus expenses. I'll double it if you find the boy in a week."
Shit, I thought. Now I'm hooked.
I ignored the thought the best I could, and reached out to take Reznick's offered hand. We shook, and then the big man paid me, an overstuffed envelope of cash. He left, leaving a scent trail of expensive cologne and dry-cleaned fabric behind him, gunmetal beneath it all.
When he was gone, I leaned back in the chair and flicked idly through the cash. Full retainer, plus another $500 for expenses. There was also a card, good stock with thick black letters and a number. I tucked it and the cash into my pocket and though it might not turn out to be such a bad day, after all.
*
In the top drawer of my desk, I keep an old .38 Special and a shoulder holster. Normally, I'd leave the piece behind, but missing kid cases were no joke. When they turned serious, they did so at the same speed drunk drivers reserve for wrapping themselves around trees. I slipped on the holster, and checked the cylinder. Six rounds, hollow point. I hate the gun, but it's a necessary evil.
I took the cash and the car keys and the kid's picture, and left the office. I locked the door behind me and walked down the hall, into the late LA sun, where the ocean and the smog and the fire above turned the sky into a pastel mirage. A few hours until sundown. That gave me time to get home and flash the kid's picture around before it got dark.
I got into the Cavalier, and began to drive, to the Lot, and whatever waited for me there.
Chapter Two
City road gave to suburb, and suburb passed again into city, until the roadside was dotted with oversized pole barns and parking lots. Behind each, rolling hills were spotted here and there with homes and junkyards and plane crashes, all settings for screen and television.
Another few miles past that lay the wasteland of the 50s. Old studios and lots, some repurposed, some left to rot, lay in empty plots of land. These were remnants of the heyday of the silver screen, Hammer films, Bogart, Garbo, and Gene Kelley. The Lot lay in the middle of those, and I turned the Cavalier onto the frontage road that led to the main area.
The road wound through scrub brush and evergreens that parted often enough to reveal wide swaths of grassy plain. Eventually, the road entered suburbs, clean Tudor and ranch homes lining the sides. I pulled up to a small ranch with a carport and tucked between two small stands of pines. I rolled the car to a stop.
I sat in the driver's seat and listened to the tick tick of the engine as it cooled. The sun slanted through the pines and painted light and shadow on the hood. I wondered where the kid could've got to, and hoped Reznick was mistaken. For the most part, the residents of the Lot were harmless, but every full moon, so to speak, all bets were off.
I left the car and went inside. The house was a typical bachelor pad - spare on furnishing and food, with a small safe set in the wall behind an Ansel Adams print I'd bought years ago when I was flush for more than five minutes. I opened the safe and put half the money in, spun the lock a few times, replaced the picture, and left.
Despite the photo Reznick had handed me, I knew you could walk the Lot easily - end to end in an hour, if you needed to. I pocketed his keys and took off at a brisk walk. A month away from Fall, the air was still warm, so I rolled up my sleeves, and headed for downtown.
As I walked, I passed empty homes and boxes with elaborate facades. The sets had been used in everything from monster to alien to spook movies in the 50s, and most of the old construction still stood, though not all of it was functional. Even the sidewalk was inconsistent, and I found myself picking over patches of dirt and grass between end and beginning.
Where there were no residents, the buildings and facades were crumbling, a slow decay that reminded me of the way Hollywood stars age. Here and there paint chipped and flaked, shingles were missing, and panes of glass were broken from windows. The sidewalk was crazed with cracks, and grass and weeds spilled over onto pavement and walk. Someone did cursory maintenance on the place once a month, just enough to keep chaos from creeping all the way in, but nothing more.
I picked my way past the small residential neighborhood into what passed for downtown, faded storefronts and empty pane glass windows lining the street. Closer to the residential area, off to the west, were a museum set and a library, and here, in downtown, there was a once-working theater.
Further up the street, downtown gave way to another fork, this one splitting east and north. The east path led to a Victorian neighborhood, like you might see in London, or on the east coast at the turn of the century. Northwards, the town gave way to a small meadow punctuated by a few strands of trees and a lake, and a hill on which sat a replica of a Gothic castle, a switchback drive leading up to it.
I decided to head up the hill, to visit the residents there first, and then work my way back down. I figured if no one had seen the kid by the time I reached home, I'd have to take a new tack tomorrow. As I walked, the pistol in its holster chafed at my ribs, and I loosened the straps a bit.
It didn't take long to make my way out of town and onto the side of the road that led up to the castle. On either side of me, tall meadow grasses and wildflowers blew in the warm coastal breeze, and gravel crunched underfoot. I strolled at an easy pace, the late afternoon sun warming me, and idly stripping the heads from fountain grass as I passed it. To my right, the lake twinkled in the sun, the breeze raising short waves that lapped at the pale sand on the shore.
If I had been a more patient man, I could've spent my days just looking at the view.
Eventually, the road turned into an incline, and I found myself breathing harder as I climbed the hill. I had given up smoking some time ago, but it didn't make me Superman, and I still hated climbing things. When I reached the top, I walked the final few yards to the front door of the castle a little slower than I had been, and leaned against the doorframe for a moment to catch my breath.
The heat was making the day-old stubble on my cheeks itch, and I indulged a scratch for a moment, resisting the urge to bang my foot against the ground as I did so. It's the little things, really.
When I was situated, I stood up, and grabbed the big iron knocker on the door, made to look like a gargoyle's head. BANG BANG BANG, it went, and I waited. Close to the door, I could hear footsteps and voices, and stepped back a bit. The door swung inward.
A man, at least six-foot two, with dark eyes, pale youthful features, and a widow's peak answered the door. He lit up as soon as he saw me.
"Peck!" He said, a smile spreading across his features. Color almost reached his cheeks. He turned back over his shoulder, and shouted into the castle. "Adam, Peck's here!"
I smiled back. "Hey, Vlad." A shadow, nearly seven feet tall, appeared over Vlad's shoulder, and I waved at it. "Hi, Adam."
"PECK!" The voice was deep and mellifluous. The door was tugged out of Vlad's grasp, and flung wide, and I found myself lifted in the air in a bear hug, my ribs creaking with the pressure. When it finally stopped, and I was put back down, I found myself leaning on the doorframe for air for a second time that day.
Vlad was standing at Adam's shoulder, and slapped it playfully. "Don't break him, Adam. Who else is going to come to dinner if you do?"
Adam blushed, his patchwork skin and faint scars turning a uniform rosy pink.
Vlad continued. "So, what've you got for us today, Peck?"
I shook my head. "Business, I'm afraid." I fished inside my back pocket and pulled out the picture of the boy. They followed the motion, and for the first time, seemed to notice the pistol. They sobered up.
I handed Vlad the photo. He frowned. "What's this?"
"Just wondering if you guys have seen this kid. I'm asking everyone - his dad seems to think he wandered in here and got lost."
Vlad shook his head, and handed the photo to Adam. It looked like a piece of confetti in his huge fingers. After a moment, he shook his head as well, and handed the picture back. I took it, and tucked it away.
"Sorry, Wulfy. Never seen him before." Adam said this last, and the 'w' came out as a faint 'v'.
I nodded. "Didn't expect so. Oh well. It was a nice walk up, though." My stomach rumbled. "Anyways, what was this about dinner?"
They both brightened.
"Well," Vlad drew out the word a bit. "Adam is making his famous roast rosemary duck with baby reds and asparagus, and I'm providing cocktails."
"And we were hoping you could tell us about the Hollywood." Adam added with a hopeful note.
I smiled. "Sounds good, guys. What time?"
"Eight ok?"
"Yes, and I will come armed with all I know."
Adam smiled and clapped, a sound loud enough to knock birds from the sky. We exchanged hugs again, and I waved goodbye, then started back down the hill, the big door closing behind me.
Chapter Three
Going down the hill was a hell of a lot easier than getting up it, though I was still not overjoyed about the incline. Say what you want about me; just don't say I'm ambitious when it comes to exercise. By the time I reached the bottom, the wind had changed, and was blowing from the direction of the lake.
That was when I smelled it. Sweet and heavy, the scent was almost like syrup made from rotting meat. It sent a shiver of revulsion up from my stomach, along my spine, and into my nose. I turned my head, but the scent was on the wind, and I'd have about as much luck getting away from it as not getting wet during a rainstorm.
My first thought was that a deer, or maybe one of the bums that wandered onto the Lot from time to time, hadn't made it through the night. I knew better. I knew those smells, and this was different somehow. I sighed, not liking where this day was going for the second time, and headed toward the source.
As I walked, I kicked and pressed wildflowers into the ground. Their scents drifted up toward me, and I tried to inhale it. It helped, to a degree, but not so much that my stomach stopped trying to do back flips.
Within a few hundred yards of the lake, I made out a grey shape on the beach, beside which a second, larger black shape kneeled. I slipped the pistol from its holster, and chose my steps a bit more carefully. The dark shape still had its back to me, and didn't look up as I got closer. The suspicious part of me wondered what he was up to.
A few steps in, I recognized the shape. Manny, the lake's only resident. Standing, he was 6' 8, and weighed about 300 pounds. I kept my distance.
"Manny."
"He-hey, Peck."
"What's going on, Manny?"
He gestured toward the grey shape, which I saw was about the same size as a twelve-year-old boy. "Found him in my lake. He was knotted up in some weeds, so I got him loose. Say, you gonna shoot me?"
I realized I still had the pistol on him. I also realized that despite his appearance and size, Manny was a big teddy bear. Maybe a bit slow, but with a heart to match his size. I dropped the barrel, and slipped the revolver back into its holster. Manny breathed an audible sigh of relief, and dropped his hands. I walked over.
The boy was huddled on his side, his body curled into a 'U' shape. I squatted next to him, and Manny joined me. I half-rolled the body and tried to work the boy loose in order to get a better look. My gut was sinking the whole time, trying to figure out what had happened here, and how to tell his father. Manny pushed the boy's damp hair away from his eyes, and closed the lids.
I ran a quick visual inspection. No marks, no hemorrhaging, no petechiae. Blue lips. For all intents and purposes, it looked like the kid had drowned. I stood, and Manny stayed at the boy's side. I tried to wrap my head around what I had to do. The water beside me was calm. I was jealous.
First, I needed to get the body to a coroner, but with the fading daylight, and him out of the water, I needed to figure out how and where. Second, I needed to get in touch with the dad.
Manny stood suddenly and backed up a step, then two. He waved. "Peck." He pointed at the boy.
I looked down, and saw foam, a deep red, was bubbling up from the boy's lips. I knelt again, and touched it. It came away in strings, and a faint tingling started up in my fingertips. I searched for something to scrape the foam into, but could only find a rubber glove in my pocket. God knew why that was there. You collect weird things in my line of work. I touched a finger to the boy's mouth, and scraped some off, then flipped the glove inside out. That done, I stood again.
The Lot Page 1
