. . . The dawn, leaking like warm butter through the window blinds: Burke had a sudden flash of instinct and awakened. He opened his eyes. Indira Pal was staring down at him, dark skin still glowing from their frenzied bout. She had an odd expression on her face; those dark eyes seem more sad than happy.
"I love you," Burke whispered. Deep inside, another part of him winced with guilt and objected like some strident prosecutor. She is married, shut up.
Indira Pal did not seem pleased. In fact, her sadness deepened visibly. "I should not have come here, Red."
He nodded. "You're probably right, but I'm glad you did."
She lowered her head to his chest, listened to his pounding heart. He stroked her hair, acutely aware that she had something she needed to say, not sure he wanted to listen. He had always been keenly attuned to her and had desperately missed that feeling.
"I have to go back to him."
He did not answer. Could not.
"He needs me."
Let her talk, let her tell it.
"Mo hasn't been well. And that makes my having done this seem even worse than it did the first time."
"Do you want me to feel bad about us? I can't do that." Not true. Deep down he did feel bad, for his own reasons as well as those she had just articulated, because selfishly, greedily, he wanted her to stay, to have sex one more time. His flesh needed the sustenance. Burke had been a corpse and she had brought him alive again.
"I have missed you. I have thought of you always, since school. The feelings never went away."
Another flash of guilt, for different reasons: in the spaces in between, Jack Burke had lost himself in someone else, married that someone, and for him these intense feelings had seemed ancient history. He had never forgotten Indira; the memories were precious and rare, but until recently they'd been carefully tucked away in a mental scrapbook, tied with twine, left on a dusty shelf. The past was dead and gone—but now it had returned. For him, things could never be the same now, and he knew it. An affair would not suffice. Their coming together had been irresistible, but he was bound to want more, and soon. Burke had learned how fickle passion could be, likewise how steady real love could become. Perhaps it was one of the parts of him that had already grown old.
"I'm glad you came here." He repeated himself because he was at a loss for words. His hand, even while stroking her forehead and playing with her long, dark hair, paused for a new thought: "How did you know where I live?"
"I had your address in my book." Had she stiffened a bit? "Perhaps you have sent me a holiday card. No, did you not leave your business card with Mo?"
"That doesn't have my home address."
Indira sighed. "I think of you so often maybe I got it once the last few years, I don't know. I had it when I looked for it and the computer gave me a map. I waited for Mohandas to fall asleep. He stays up very late sometimes. But then when he went to his room I left to come here."
"You sleep in separate rooms, then?" The thought of their marriage failing so badly instantly made him jubilant, but that response soon provoked a third twinge of guilt. What, that makes me the golden penis or something? "It sounds like you have been unhappy for some time."
"Yes."
Moments passed. Indira roused herself to speak again. "But how have you been? Are you . . . working?" That question also was burdened by back story, heavily weighted. Indira had known of his violent adventuring and had always disapproved.
"Not much," Burke lied. "And very little of the wrong kind."
"That is good." Her voice was becoming slurred, her breathing turning lighter and moving faster as she fell asleep.
He considered trying to arouse her again, but let it slide. "Too tired?"
"Hmm. Yes."
Reluctantly, Burke put resurgent lust aside. "Sleep, now. Get some rest." He closed his own eyes and inhaled the scent of her: perfume and perspiration and the heavy musk of sexuality. It had been such a long, long time. He fell asleep. The dream came again, a man sitting in a pile of gore, laughing . . . Asleep or awake, Burke couldn't seem to find a way to kill that demon.
When he opened his eyes again, Indira was gone.
THIRTY-FOUR
Burke awoke groggy and depleted from the odd combination of sexual fusion and graphic nightmares, feeling both stimulated and exhausted. He ran his fingertips along the indentation in the white sheets and on the pillow where her head rested; plucked a long, dark hair from the covers. He inhaled the scent of her perfume. A great sadness seized his heart, and he wondered—not for the first time—how a man could so deeply love two women. He did a series of yoga stretches, then stomach exercises and pushups, used the free weights and gave himself a thorough workout. When he was dizzy and his muscles were trembling, he stopped. Then it was time to repeat the stretches and unwind a little before taking a long, hot shower.
He made a protein shake with fresh fruit and skim milk. He turned on the television in the living room to watch CNN. The blender screeched like a surgeon's bone saw. When he turned it off, he caught the last minute of a story involving "Juan Dominguez, one of South America's biggest drug lords," who had died of some lingering illness at a remote location in Mexico. Unsurprisingly, both American and Mexican officials were not displeased.
What had brought international attention, however, was an outrage involving Maria Consuelo Dominguez, the drug lord's spouse. At the written request of Senor Dominguez, and with the full approval and involvement of his gang, the wife was gagged and bound and thrown onto her husband's funeral pyre. Although that practice was well known in the east it was virtually unheard of in South America. Human rights activists and feminists the world over were in an uproar.
The telephone rang. Burke answered. "Honey?"
Tony Monteleone. "My office. Half an hour."
Burke heard the same program in stereo. Tony was also watching CNN. "Tony? Hey, did you catch this story on Dominguez and his wife?"
A grunt. "Some of it."
"How low can you go?"
The CNN anchor introduced a video piece. Someone had done their research. A short, narrated clip referred to an obscure, now discredited Hindu practice called "Sati," where a man's widow was required by law to burn beside the body of her spouse.
"The old 'if I can't have her, nobody can,' huh?"
"How about that," Monteleone offered, dryly. "Maybe you can take it with you." In comedy, timing is everything. Tony broke the connection.
The shower felt wonderful on aching muscles. Burke locked up, left, and was surprised to find himself whistling tunelessly as he drove through the city. Even one annoying schmuck who cut him off at the Riverside exit failed to fully arouse his ire. He parked behind Fredo, as usual, and sailed in through the back.
"Have a seat." Tony Monteleone was in his usual booth, papers everywhere. He looked wrung out and short on sleep, his hair divided into two small hillocks not unlike the horns of a satyr. "Want some coffee?"
Burke was already pouring from the pot.
"What the fuck you so happy about?"
Burke sipped, smiled. "Nothing."
Monteleone shook his head. "You scare me, Red. You really do. Just when I start believing you got some brains to go with your balls, you go and fuck up."
Burke felt his smile falter. How the hell does he know about her? "I didn't plan on it, Tony. It just happened." Jesus, he's really pissed.
Monteleone leaned forward. Silverware clanked and tepid coffee pooled in his saucer. His features went pinched. He was having a difficult time keeping his voice level. "What the fuck do you mean, you didn't plan on it? What did you think would go down after the last time?"
When Burke didn't reply, Monteleone became even more irate. "Listen, Red, do you know what I think?"
Burke leaned back in his seat, honestly bewildered. "No, Tony. And I'm not sure I give a damn what you think."
"What?"
"You heard me."
Monteleone's features darkened. His mouth turned down and s
lanted into a jack-o-lantern scowl. "I owe you favors. You are a man of respect, but don't presume upon our friendship by talking to me this way ever again."
Burke realized, a bit too late, that being with Indira had clouded his thinking—something was very, very wrong here. That there had been an extra car in the back parking lot, a dented Volkswagen bus, yet no one else was inside the restaurant. That the curtain separating the entrance from the main part of the restaurant was always open when the restaurant was this empty—but now it was halfway shut, and below the lower trim Burke could just make out the shape of a large pair of shoes. Someone was watching them argue.
This was a hit.
He slid his hand from the table and allowed it to stray to his weapon. He extended his peripheral vision, soaked up some additional details: The door to the kitchen was open a crack and a thin shadow extended to the edge of the bar. There are two of them, one straight ahead and one slightly behind me, both probably mob soldiers. What the hell is going on?
Monteleone slowly extended a trembling finger and pointed to Burke's left arm. "Bring your gun hand out and set it down on the table, nice and slow."
Burke did not comply. "Tony, I would very much like us to start over from the top here, okay?"
Tony Monteleone was red-faced and seething. He picked up a napkin, dipped it in some ice water and dabbed his perspiring forehead. "And just how do you propose we do that?"
For his part, Burke was tense, but cold; his fingers were at the butt of his Glock, and he was determined to get out alive. He hesitated. A new approach occurred to him. He slowly brought his hand back into plain view, set it down on the red and white checkered table cloth. "Start over. Tell me why you're pissed. I don't get it."
"What?" Monteleone, clearly stunned. "The fuck you mean you don't get it?"
"I'm serious. Look, my hands are empty. You've got two of your studs drawing down on me right now, and a gun of your own under the table. I'm going to trust you, here. We go back a long way. Now, tell me why you're pissed."
Monteleone shook his head. "You're a piece of work, Burke. You think you can just hit anybody you want? Take out a customer of mine who owes me forty large, without even clearing it first?"
"What are you talking about?"
"Dinky Martin, damn it. Don't yank my chain. You left me in the dark and holding my dick, here."
Burke blinked. "Somebody wasted Dinky?"
"And the Arena Bowl Elephant, too. Down in Sherman Oaks somewhere. You trying to tell me it wasn't you who did it?"
"No way. I swear."
"Don't lie to me, damn it." But Burke's shocked face was convincing. Tony slowly relaxed. "Maybe you'd best tell me what transpired."
Burke sighed. "He and the big guy tailed me out of a restaurant and braced me. We danced a little, sure, but I left them both breathing."
"You wouldn't shit me?"
"Tony, I've done some strange things in my time, but I don't kill people for no reason. And if it had been me, it would have been in self-defense. And don't you think I would have called you and put you in the loop?"
Monteleone pondered. After a time, he relaxed. "It didn't sound much like you, Red. You don't like knives and I never heard of you strangling somebody, either."
Burke was worried, deep in thought. "Down in Sherman Oaks, you said. That bothers me, man. Because it must have happened right after I got into it with them. Did he owe big anywhere else?"
Monteleone dabbed his forehead again. "Not half what he owed me! I'm the biggest sucker around. And now I'm out a lot, and that means my bosses are out, too. They are not happy campers."
"Tony, it wasn't me. We were talking about two different things at the start, there."
Monteleone squinted. "Okay, but answer me this, then. What the hell did you mean when you said it wasn't my business?"
"That was about a girl," Burke offered, weakly. "And . . . well, she's married."
"Pussy? You were going to croak for pussy?" Monteleone snapped his fingers. "Down, boys." A rectangle of pale light appeared on the curtain as the first man stepped through the front door. He smiled amiably at Burke and walked back outside. The one in the kitchen quietly closed the door; his footsteps slapped the damp flooring as he exited through the back.
Burke forced a wry grin. "Why do I feel a sudden and almost overwhelming urge to go to confession?"
Straight-faced and dour, Tony Monteleone responded. "Because you were maybe a pubic hair from being dead."
"Well, no wonder."
Tony squinted. "Okay, then here's how it is. I want to hire you to find out who hit him. Who the fuck wasted a client on my turf without asking. Whoever it is, he took bread out of the mouths of my family. I want him notified that his behavior is unacceptable."
Burke drank some coffee. He was surprised to see that his hand was steady. "I guess that brings us to a second topic."
"Which is?"
"I'm out."
"Say what?"
"I'm out." Burke put the cup down, gently. "You've been good to me from the day I hit town from Vegas, Tony. You've looked the other way when I asked you to. You worked with me so I could pick up a government job or two. Never bitched when I had to turn you down for something, never dragged me too far into anything delicate. I owe you big, friend."
"I'm getting an ulcer, damn it." Tony leaned back and rubbed his belly. "It's the stress. Okay, I heard a 'but' in that speech, right?"
"But I just can't do it anymore. I think I can find other ways to make the cash. Maybe I can figure out a way to lower the medical expenses, I don't know. But this tap dancing on the edge, it needs to stop."
"Tell me it ain't so. You're gonna play it straight?"
"Have to."
Monteleone was amused. "And you think they will let you walk away, just like that," another snap of the fingers, "whenever you want? Me, I trust you. I might be okay with something like this, but Wee Willie and Sonny D . . . you know how they are."
"I know. So it might please them to know I'm not in a hurry for the rest of the money that is owed me. You can take your time."
Burke was calm and perfectly composed and the reason gradually dawned on Monteleone. He fought down a smirk. "Don't tell me. You have a little insurance policy of some kind put away."
"What we have here is a 'live and let live' kind of thing," Burke replied. "There will be no problem so long as nothing happens to me, or anyone close to me, that could in any way be considered suspicious."
Monteleone allowed the smile to blossom wide. He actually seemed pleased, even proud. "And needless to say, if anyone were to try something and fail, you'd take that very personally."
"Very. I would feel compelled to speak directly to whoever gave that order."
"Like I said earlier, you got balls."
Burke shrugged. "I know I might be putting you in a very awkward position, Tony. Do you mind passing the message for me, or should I fly to Vegas and do it myself?"
"I don't mind. I want to see their ugly faces. And for what it's worth, if anybody can pull off yanking the Corelli brothers by the dick, it's probably you. The government thing scares them shitless, you know. They remember hearing stories about the Kennedy family."
Burke got out of the booth. "Thanks, Tony. You're a good guy. And I meant what I said. I owe you for all you've done for us."
"You and your wife are good people, Red."
"Just take the compliment."
Monteleone considered. "Aw, fuck. I probably owe you, too." A sip of coffee, another dab with the napkin. "But answer me something."
"Okay."
"This married broad. You love her? I mean, really love her?"
"Yes." Burke surprised himself. "In fact, I think I always have."
"I kind of envy you that shit," Monteleone said. His eyes changed filters, rolled inward. "Me, I never had it. Been married to Louise since we was both kids in Newark. She was a real sweet piece of ass back then, and I liked her well enough. But now . . ."
B
urke waited, politely; wondering where this was headed.
"Now, she's mean as a snake." Monteleone sighed. "What I envy is you got a woman who might really want to be nice to you. That can be a very fucking good thing, important in a man's life. A man needs that shit." He extended his hand. They shook, hard. Monteleone held on for a few extra seconds, clumsy machismo preventing him from voicing his true feelings. Burke nodded, getting it. He squeezed back.
"Red? Good luck."
"Thanks, Tony. You, too."
Monteleone, who had been prepared to do murder only moments before, was embarrassed by the vague hint of real sentiment. He returned to his clutter of papers, face down and shoulders stiff. Burke paused at the back door, looked back at a man truly out of his proper century. Monteleone barked, without looking up.
"Don't be a stranger."
THIRTY-FIVE
TUESDAY
Bowden could still remember when smoking in a city or county building was not considered a mortal sin. But somewhere along the way those tree-hugging, animal-rights, health-food freakazoids wormed their way into state politics. By the time they had completed their rampage, smokers had become an endangered species. Other than a brief, all-too-trendy resurgence of cigar smoking in the 1990s, the zeitgeist had condemned the smoker as foul, filthy, and morally repugnant. Bowden was currently outside the garage entrance, smoking one last cigarette before his meeting with the Deputy Mayor of Los Angeles. He had his back to the parked cars and stood, quietly, inhaling desperately into cupped palms. His cell phone rang.
"Yo! Scotty? It's Doc." His old friend sounds tense, hurried. The dark voice has a flinty edge to it. Doc sounds like a man who just got bad results from a biopsy. "You where you can talk?"
"What's up?" Bowden forces enthusiasm. "How are they hanging these days, my man?"
"Scotty, I don't know who else to talk to. I got specific orders form the ME's office to close the file, but I was fucking around killing time and I noticed something."
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