City of the Lost (9781101563137)

by Blackmore, Stephen

I’m still on the fence with Gabriela. She’s giving me a hand, helping Carl, but she still wants the stone, and she tried to screw me over for it with Darius.

  And then there’s Samantha.

  She’s just as much an enigma as when I met her at the club. She knows Giavetti. Had a falling out with him. But she hasn’t mentioned the stone. Hasn’t tried to convince me to give it to her or to keep it from someone else. Not once.

  What the fuck is that all about?

  I had meant to track her down after I was done in Bel Air, but then Carl and Gabriela and whatever the fuck Giavetti did in that hotel room happened.

  My gut tells me she’s not going anywhere. Not until she’s seen me. She’s got some stake in this and something she wants from me, or she wouldn’t have tracked me down at the club, wouldn’t have talked to me about Giavetti. So she can wait.

  Which leaves me the address I got from Carl.

  I don’t know if Neumann could only see through the eye or if he could hear through Carl, too. If he can that could be a problem. He could be there now, and god knows what he’s finding.

  I check the address online. It’s east of downtown, next to that cement ditch we call a river. A little more digging, and I realize that it’s a junkyard.

  I look at the clock. They won’t be open. That’s fine. Every self-respecting thug has bolt cutters.

  Most of the time the L.A. River is empty, a long slab of concrete where bums try to sleep while kids with too much drug money race their pimped-out Hondas. Occasionally, when we have rain that’s more than a drizzle, we get a lesson in the fact that all that cement’s there for a reason.

  Our river doesn’t flow, it just floods. Every year, some moron gets swept away while helicopters try to pull him out, and the news guys stand by and film it all for our amusement.

  I pull up about a block from the yard. The nearby train tracks are quiet. A couple of railcars on side tracks, some semis parked nearby. Anything natural was paved over a long time ago.

  Mackay’s Salvage. High chain link and razor wire. Cars piled high like Hot Wheels in a windstorm, tumbled together in a maze of scrap metal hallways. A compactor and crane. A trailer for offices in the back.

  I don’t see much in the way of security, but there’s got to be something.

  I take a good whiff. Car exhaust, motor oil, and gasoline. Seat leather, vinyl too long in the sun. Something else. There’s at least one—no, two people here. One of them really likes garlic, the other’s an Old Spice kind of guy.

  I wonder what that tastes like.

  And a dog. One dog? More? I can’t tell.

  It takes me almost two minutes to cut through the padlock. These bolt cutters are great on fingers, not so much on industrial steel. I have to stop twice and duck behind an oil drum when the security guards and their lone Doberman pass by. The dog offers me a casual sniff, but beyond that, they don’t seem to know I’m here.

  I slide the gate open enough to let me through and close it behind me. The place is a fucking maze. Dead end at a mountain of Buicks, just as the guards make another sweep. This time the dog’s less forgiving.

  Had a dog growing up. I’d hate to have to shoot this one. I check to make sure I’ve got a round in the chamber, just in case.

  I push my way farther in the shadows and wait for the guards to let the dog loose, but they just tell it to shut up. They pass out of earshot, the barking and yelling fading in the distance.

  Head to the back, get lost a few times, double back, finally find the offices to one side of the crane. The space they’re in is a staging area for feeding cars into the compactor. A rusted-out Cadillac hangs over it from the crane like a dead man on the gallows.

  Lock’s an expensive Schlage embedded in a cheap wood-paneled door. I could pick it, but why bother? The door pops open under my shoulder.

  Pretty boring layout inside. Filing cabinets, couple desks, chairs. A wall calendar showing Miss Tech-Tool September, silicone tits and all.

  I riffle through the filing cabinets looking for what, I don’t know. They’re full of invoices and time sheets.

  Then I see it. Sitting at the top of a license to operate, right under “Mackay’s Salvage.” The parent company: “Imperial Enterprises.” And under the words “Sole Proprietor,” S. Giavetti.

  I stare at it, trying to make sense of it.

  I’d almost forgotten about Imperial, the company that owned the house that the stone was stolen from. And Giavetti owned it?

  I’m having trouble making sense of it. If he owned the house, if he got the guy in there with the stone, why did he need to hire guys from Simon to steal it? And something else. Other questions, but catching them is like trying to grab at moths. I can’t seem to think straight.

  Why can’t I think? “Fuck me,” I say.

  “Yeah, gonna do more than that.”

  I turn to see the guards and their dog right outside the door. Thought I’d closed it better than that. Got so wound up I stopped paying attention to my nose. Still not used to it.

  But now that I am, they remind me of beef stew and pumpkin pie. That can’t be good.

  “You need to walk away now,” I say. My voice is thick in my ears. Something’s wrong. I realize what as I catch a glimpse of my hands in the guard’s flashlight. They’ve started to sink in on themselves, and splotches of rot are starting to bloom along my knuckles.

  “Tough talk,” one of the guards says. Older guy. Overweight. Too many donuts and not enough exercise. His partner’s just a scrawny kid with acne scars. Doubt he could bench press a third his own weight with those arms.

  The dog, though, all lean muscle and hungry teeth. And disciplined. Staring at me, not growling, not barking. Waiting for the command to go get himself an early breakfast.

  “Really,” I say. “You want to run.” I lurch at them, try to barrel my way past. I don’t want to kill them. They haven’t done anything.

  But then the fat guard lets the leash slip, launching the Doberman at me like a shot out of a gun, and I lose control.

  The dog takes my arm. Teeth sink into my sleeve. My leather jacket keeps it from breaking skin, but the bone underneath crunches.

  They’re expecting me to drop, scream, do something that will let them come in and beat on me with batons. They don’t expect me to bum rush them. The Doberman scrabbles for better purchase on my arm. Jaws lock down tighter.

  I push my way out the door. Swing the dog at their surprised faces. Patches of hair are falling out of my head, skin still attached.

  The kid gets the dog’s ass upside his skull, knocking him to the ground. I pick him up with my other hand, launch him toward a pile of rusted-out junk. Twisted metal rains down onto him, pinning his legs. I dislodge the Doberman, throw it after him.

  The fat guard draws his gun and gets a shot off that punches through my chest, out my back. Quick step in, jab in his kidneys, sweep the gun out of his hand.

  I give him one last chance. One chance to run, get out of here and save himself. I lean down at him to tell him that he can go, but he has to go now.

  All that comes out is a groan.

  He swings his flashlight up, freezes when he sees how far gone I am. A chunk of flesh falls from my jaw and plops onto his face. That’s the last straw. He starts to scream.

  I grab the light, beat him until he shuts up. Beat him until his face is nothing but bloody pulp, busted teeth.

  Then I start in on his sternum, the Maglite cracking through bone.

  There’s a whimper nearby. I look up to see the kid staring at me and shitting himself.

  “Don’t worry, buddy,” I try to say, “you’re next.”

  But all that comes out of my mouth is a torrent of thick, black blood.

  When I come to my senses, most of the Doberman’s back end has gone down the fat guard’s gullet. Loops of canine intestines hang between his teeth. Chest is a ragged hole. Most of his lower jaw is missing.

  Doesn’t look like it stopped him from making short w
ork of his buddy. Pinned under a half-dismantled Studebaker, the kid didn’t stand a chance. His neck is chewed through and most of his chest is gone.

  He’s still pinned, but he’s already moving. Sweeps his arms back and forth, like he’s playing a game of blind man’s bluff.

  I wipe thick blood off my watch. Damn. All this carnage in half an hour.

  Just like last time I’m back to normal, covered in gore and chunks of rotting skin. I pull myself up from the ground. The fat guard casts a quick glance over his shoulder at me and goes back to work on the dog’s corpse.

  I come up behind him, grab his head, snap his neck. He drops like a sack of bones. I take his partner out too, separate the dog’s head from its neck for good measure. Last thing this city needs are zombie dogs.

  Getting rid of the bodies takes a little while, mostly to lever the kid out from under the Studebaker.

  I toss them into the top loader of one of the junkyard’s car compactors. Turn them into paste with the push of a button.

  I don’t feel the same kind of disgust I did with the whore. Because she was a woman? Because I hunted her down? Because I can rationalize this one better? They did set a dog on me, after all.

  Maybe I’m just getting a taste for it.

  This is getting insane. I can’t be killing people and making zombies every night. Eventually, somebody’s going to notice. What if one of them gets loose?

  I hose myself off and cover my front seat with a tarp. Maybe I should hose my car out, too.

  No answers just more questions. What the fuck is Imperial Enterprises ? Giavetti’s company. He’s been around god knows how long, he’s got to have put together a decent bankroll.

  It doesn’t make sense. The guy who owned the stone lived in a house owned by Imperial Enterprises. Why would Giavetti get him in there and then steal it from him? Unless that was part of the plan. If the stone’s in the house then it’s vulnerable. Giavetti would have had access to all the security codes. He could have arranged for anybody to just waltz in and get it. Even three thugs without a brain cell between them.

  Giavetti’s got twists and turns that I can’t begin to figure out. That’s part of my problem. I don’t know him, not really.

  I need to talk to someone who does.

  Chapter 20

  Samantha’s building is a 1920s Mediterranean-style hotel converted into condos overlooking the bluffs in Santa Monica. It’s surrounded by buildings half its age with half its character.

  The sun is just a hazy glow on the eastern horizon, peeking over the rooftops like it’s not sure it wants to get up. Less than three blocks from the beach, her building is shrouded in the early morning fog coming off the Pacific. I step through a small gate into the central courtyard, water dripping off the wrought iron bars. The fog will burn off in an hour, but right now it might as well be London.

  Finding her wasn’t tough. After taking a shower to get all the slime off me, all I had to do was hit Google.

  Something about her that I haven’t been able to shake since I met her in the club. She’s not my type, but then I’m not sure you can call strippers and washed-up porn starlets a type. My dates aren’t known for their conversational skills.

  Maybe that’s what it is. She’s different. I can’t pin her down. She’s something between normal and the weird-ass rabbit hole I’ve fallen down.

  Maybe it’s just because she hasn’t hit me up for Giavetti’s stone yet.

  There’s a doorman who looks more like a bouncer standing just inside the foyer. I was hoping for a surprise entrance. Bang on her door. Catch her tired with her guard down.

  “Who are you here to see, sir?” he says, like it’s noon and strangers wander into the building all the time. I can smell gun oil on him, barely make out the telltale bulge under his armpit.

  “Samantha Morgan.”

  “And you are?”

  “Joe Sunday.”

  “Go right on up, sir,” he says, gesturing toward the elevator. “She’s expecting you. The elevator will take you to the penthouse.”

  I look at my watch. “She say when she was expecting me?”

  “Couldn’t say, sir. She called down about fifteen minutes ago to let me know you were coming.”

  So much for the surprise entrance.

  The elevator lets me off right inside a foyer decked out in teak and mahogany, and the minute I see her I know I’m out of my league.

  Samantha’s waiting for me in a rattan chair next to a potted palm. A white sundress, strappy sandals. A thin, gold chain around one ankle. Hair pulled back in a ponytail.

  “You were hoping to catch me in my pajamas, weren’t you?” she says as I step out of the elevator.

  “Something like that.”

  “Joke’s on you. I don’t wear any.” She glances over my shoulder at a clock on the wall. “I’m off my game,” she says, sipping a cup of tea. “I expected you here ten minutes ago.”

  “I like to keep people guessing,” I say.

  “Of that I have no doubt.” She stands and steps toward me. Too close. Her scent is overpowering. I could get drunk off it. For a second I’m afraid I’m about to zombie out. But this is different. It’s not hunger, not like that, but it’s definitely desire.

  She looks up into my eyes, studies my face. “I was starting to think maybe you didn’t like me,” she says.

  “No chance of that,” I say before I can stop myself.

  Her face breaks into a smile. “Good.”

  I pull myself together. “But that’s not why I’m here.”

  She sighs. “Of course not. Come on. I’ve more comfortable rooms than this one.”

  She leads me through a wide connecting hall into a living room of dark hardwood floors, wrought iron, stained glass. The place is something between a Moorish castle and an art museum. Asian and African masks litter the walls.

  And playing cards, like at Neumann’s and Gabriela’s. But done up like art, not stuffed haphazardly into doorjambs. Collages, mosaics. Antique cards mounted on the wall behind glass like miniature portraits.

  She leads me into a living room filled with plush chairs and sofas. French doors open onto the penthouse deck. Fog so close I could touch it, the ocean nothing but a hint of sea air.

  “What’s with the cards?” I say, following her to a sofa. “I didn’t know it was such the in thing.”

  She glances at them. “Sort of a security system.”

  Something I’ve been thinking about after seeing Gabriela’s shirt keeping her invisible. It’s as if magic is more about the metaphor than the reality. A camouflage shirt to hide yourself, miming a telephone to call a real one. All of the cards I’ve seen are face cards. “Eyes and ears?” I say, thinking I’ve caught on.

  “No,” she says, “but I get what you’re going for. It’s more like,” she pauses, searching for a word. “Static. All the cards have personalities. Tarot cards are best, but playing cards are pretty much the same thing. Some people would see us sitting in a crowded room. Much more difficult for those sorts of people to see past it all.”

  “Huh. And I just thought you all had a gambling fetish.”

  “Sorry. I’m more a fishnets and leather kind of gal. And much as I’d hoped, I don’t suppose that’s what you came to talk to me about.”

  Fishnets, leather, and her is a powerful image, and it throws me for a moment. “No,” I say, finally. “I need to talk to you about Giavetti.”

  “I figured as much. He did something rude, didn’t he? I swear that man is like a five-year-old with a hand grenade.”

  “He ripped a guy’s arm off in a hotel at the airport.”

  “Is that all?”

  “He was a friend of mine.”

  She stops, her face softening.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “I—I know that sounded callous. It’s sort of a defense mechanism, and sometimes I forget things. How to be…. I’m very sorry.”

  “Not your fault,” I say. I don’t know what it was she was about
to say. I let it slide.

  “Can I do anything to help?”

  I can think of a good dozen things, none of which will get me closer to Giavetti. “You ever hear of Imperial Enterprises?”

  She cocks an eyebrow. “You’ve been busy.”

  “You know it?”

  “Sandro has investments. A good dozen companies set up to handle his finances. Most of them are legitimate. Some aren’t.”

  “So it’s his company?”

  “One of them, yes. I’m sure he has others that I don’t know about. I think he uses this one to handle property on the Pacific Rim, but I’m not sure.”

  “How do you know about it?”

  She gives me a Don’t-Be-Stupid look. “I keep tabs on him. I thought that much was obvious. We used to be sort of an item. Back in the day.”

  “Still got a thing for him?”

  “Please. Sandro is sooo yesterday. I broke it off with him a long time ago.”

  “How long?” The way she moves, the way she’s acting. She’s sure of herself, that much is certain, but there’s something else under that. Something not quite right. I’ve got an idea, but I want to hear her say it.

  “I’m so rude,” she says, changing the subject. “Can I get you a drink or something? You must think I’m a horrible host.” She hurries through to the kitchen. I get up and follow her.

  “I’m good, thanks.”

  “Well, I need a refill.” She fills her cup from a silver teapot on the stove.

  I try a different tack. “How’d it end?”

  She winces. “Badly. Sandro’s been looking for immortality, some kind of fountain of youth since before I met him. He’s never been entirely successful. At least not on himself.”

  “His coming back from the dead trick?”

  She nods. “That’s right. You saw him in the morgue, didn’t you? You saw the other bodies? How they were desiccated? I don’t know exactly how he does it, but how long it takes him to come back depends on what’s around him. One time he was dead for over three years.”

  “You know why he looks so old?”

  She laughs. “It’s because he is. He’s still aging, just very slowly. But he’s been around a very long time.”