by Phoef Sutton
Back inside, Amelia took a picture of herself with Rush’s phone and sent it to Zerbe. He was right. She was blond. In her early twenties, with the kind of hair that made him want to bury his face in it and the kind of green eyes that he wanted to look at him in the morning without a tinge of regret in them.
Zerbe asked her to marry him. He was joking, but he wouldn’t have turned her down if she said yes.
She laughed. It was a nice laugh. “Why don’t you come down here?”
“Can’t,” he said. “Did you ever see one of those movies where they keep a brain alive in a jar?”
“No.”
“I’m a brain alive in a jar.”
Zerbe scratched at the spot he could never quite reach under the electronic tether on his ankle and asked her again if she’d marry him.
“No,” she said, as nicely as you can say that. “Have your brother call me.”
“He won’t.”
“Sure, he will,” she said. “I’ve got his phone.”
And the line went dead.
Los Angeles shuts down early. People think it’s a wild town, Sodom and Gomorrah on the Pacific, but it closes up almost as early as Salt Lake City. By one in the morning, most everything’s quiet, and the streets are deserted. The Nocturne was open later than most nightspots, but everything around it was dark and shuttered, so it was easy for the black Lamborghini Murciélago to keep cruising the nearby streets, like a stealth bomber on a night mission. Now and again, the driver’s window would roll down and a forearm like a side of beef would slide out as the driver surveyed the parking lot. The ink work on his shoulder was spectacular: a skeleton in a vat of acid, reaching up at two angels flying above him, straining to grab God’s messengers and drag them to a boiling death. Misery loves company.
The parking lot behind the Nocturne has a history. Jean Harlow had a fight with her second husband there the night before he killed himself. There’s no plaque or anything to mark the spot. This city just doesn’t respect its heritage.
Seventy-five years later, the underage boy was loading the underage girl into the back of his Scion. She was snoring and limp as a rag doll. The grab-ass jerks were with him. One of them reached out and grabbed the girl’s tit.
The boy slapped his hand away. “Hey! I go first. I’m her date.”
Now there was another hand in the mix. A man’s hand, tapping the underage boy on the shoulder. The kid twisted around, annoyed. A big guy in a black T-shirt was butting in.
“My girlfriend’s wasted and I’m taking her home,” the kid said. “You got a problem with that?”
Rush smiled. “Just so you know, the manufacturer of the drug Rohypnol—you call it a roofie—has recently reformulated the pill to make it turn bright blue in most beverages. Yet another example of your pharmaceutical companies looking after you, the consumer.”
“Is this your fucking business?”
The boy laughed with his friends and started to say something about Rush thinking he was all that, but before he could finish, Rush had the kid’s palm bent back against his wrist and he was on his knees, crying in pain.
The two grab-asses came at Rush. He blocked the first guy’s punch and dropkicked the second one behind the ear, yanking him off balance with the crook of his ankle and sending him to the asphalt.
Amelia was watching the whole thing from the corner of the building, all lit up and enjoying herself, like this was WWF on cable.
The second grab-ass was still on the pavement—he wasn’t unconscious or anything, he just seemed to think that lying still was the best way to deal with the situation. The other one was staring at Rush like he wasn’t sure what was going on but he’d gotten the message that moving was a bad idea.
Rush spoke calmly to the underage boy, “Okay, I’m going to let go.”
He let go. The kid took a swing at him. Rush grabbed the wrist again, but this time when he bent it, he didn’t stop. The joint snapped like a gunshot. The kid screamed.
Rush locked eyes with grab-ass number one.
“Your choice,” he said.
Grab-ass took one deep breath. Then he ran off. His pal scrambled to his feet and joined him, leaving their mastermind to cry and cradle his broken wrist. Rush sighed and stepped over him. He slung the unconscious girl over his shoulder and headed back toward the club.
Amelia was watching all this like she’d just found out that Santa was real. There was a little crowd with her now—party girls catcalling and cheering on the home team. She turned to one of them and asked what the bouncer’s name was.
“Girl, you do not want to mess with that one,” was the answer.
“Just tell me his name,” Amelia said.
A tattooed Latina piped up. “Crush. He was in some kind of Mexican prison gang.”
A Valley girl smacked her down. “He’s not Mexican, stupid! He’s Bulgarian or something.”
“Nobody’s Bulgarian.” This from an Asian-Anglo Brentwood-looking girl.
“Well, he speaks Bulgarian or something,” Valley Girl maintained.
An Armenian brunette from Glendale was sure she knew it all. “No, he’s Italian! I heard his dad was all connected and Crush got in trouble for doing some wise guy’s wife!”
The Latina hated this chick. “You don’t know nothing, bitch. He—”
The girls scattered like geese when they saw Rush approaching them, the snoring girl drooped over his shoulder like a sack of sand. They all scattered except for one.
“Impressive,” Amelia said as Rush strolled by.
“That’s why I did it, to impress you,” he said, without breaking his stride.
He rounded the corner toward the club entrance, with its red-velvet rope and line of hopefuls waiting to get in. The cool and the not cool enough. The Lamborghini came out of nowhere.
Fishtailing through the crowd and screeching to a halt, it stopped just shy of smashing into the side of the building and crushing Amelia between its carbon-fiber body and the building’s hard red brick. Somehow, the bystanders managed to dive out of the way without getting hit. The gull-wing door of the Lamborghini flew up and pinned Amelia to the wall, the way a bored cat traps a moth against a window.
The driver, sporting a large skeleton tattoo, looked at her. Not angry, just doing his job. A professional.
“Gotcha,” he said, as he started to climb out of the car to get her.
THREE
The thing about fancy-ass sports cars is that they’re made to drive, not to get in and out of. A big guy like Skeleton Tattoo had to swivel around and hoist himself out, and that gave Amelia time to shove down on the door and slide to the asphalt. Before Skeleton Tat could kick the door open again, she’d skittered under the car and come up out the other side.
The passenger-side gull-wing door flew up, and a different hand reached out and grabbed her ankle. This hand had big blue veins and some nasty rings tattooed on each finger, and when Amelia kicked back and drove the heel of her fuck-me pumps into the knuckles, it didn’t seem to mind one bit.
Rush was still holding the unconscious girl over his shoulder. The people around him were getting up from the pavement where they’d dived to avoid the Lamborghini, checking to see if they had any broken bones and wondering what the hell was going on. Rush had one big advantage in situations like this—he didn’t spend a lot of time wondering why things were happening. Gail called it “reacting to command.” When something happened, he didn’t think, he just moved.
He slung the sleeping girl off his shoulder and handed her to some startled club goers, like he was passing them the ketchup at a cookout. They grabbed the girl because the big man told them to and watched as Rush seized Amelia by the wrists and pulled her away from the car. The hand with the tattooed rings wouldn’t let go, but that was fine with Rush. He used Amelia to drag the man out of the car.
When Rings tumbled onto the pavement, Rush stomped on his arm. This made him let go of Amelia, who crawled away, her tight skirt tearing as her knees scraped
the asphalt. Skeleton Tat was out now, moving around the car with confident ease, investigating this little complication. Rush hit him with a roundhouse kick to the head. This wasn’t the helpful ankle-pull to the back of the neck he’d given the ass-grabber; it was a full-strength punch to the temple, using the ball of his foot as a fist. Skeleton Tat went down like he’d been hit by a hammer.
Rings leapt up, pouncing onto Rush’s back. Rush swung around and they both fell across the hood of the car.
Amelia was struggling to get to her feet. One guy in the crowd stepped forward to help pull her up. It was a nice thing to do. Skeleton Tat was up now. He grabbed Amelia by the hair. The nice guy was considering playing the hero when Skeleton Tat pulled a pistol from the back of his pants. That made the nice guy run. Guns are good for that.
Rings had Rush down on the hood of the Lamborghini and was trying to choke him. The scar on Rush’s bald head was blazing red, but even with Rings’s big hands, he couldn’t really damage that thick neck. So Rings pressed the point of his elbow down on Rush’s Adam’s apple, trying to crush his windpipe. Muscles can’t protect that spot, no matter how strong they are. Rush reached up over his head, fingers scrambling for a weapon. He found the windshield wiper. He yanked forward, snapping it off and lashing Rings across the face. Rings reared back, a bloody welt on his cheek.
Skeleton Tat shoved Amelia into the passenger seat of the Lamborghini. Rush rolled back up onto the windshield and kicked out with his legs, slamming the gull-wing door down on Skeleton Tat’s back. Jumping to his feet, he shoved the door again, crashing it down on Tat’s head. Rings came at him from behind—Rush gave him a back kick to the face, using his counterweight to press down on the door.
Skeleton Tat roared and reared back, shoving the door open with his shoulders, flinging Rush away. Tat spun around, pistol in his hand, ready to end this annoyance once and for all. Rush kept his balance and shifted his weight to move inside the arc of Tat’s swinging arm—he grabbed the gunman’s wrist and kept spinning, wheeling him around. Digging his fingers into the man’s tendons, Rush forced him to loosen his grip on the gun. Wrenching it from Tat’s hand, he popped out the cartridge, kicking it away into the street.
Amelia was leaning out of the car now, watching. “Cool,” she said.
But Rings was on her now, a large hunting knife pressed to her throat. He was bleeding and angry, and he really wanted this to be over.
“Gedbagin,” he said, in an accent so heavy she could hardly understand him. He pressed the blade into her flesh and shoved toward the gull-wing door—she understood him then. He wanted her to get back in the car.
Before she could do it, she was startled by an unfamiliar voice yelling at them in thick, Slavic-sounding gibberish. She appeared surprised to see that Rush was doing the shouting. Rings answered with some gibberish of his own, and then pushed Amelia the rest of the way into the car. She fell across the driver’s seat, knocking over a pile of CDs, scattering rainbows everywhere.
Rush hurried around to the car door, but Skeleton Tat was in front of him again. It had taken Tat a while to realize that Rush was a serious threat, but now he knew it and he was on his game. Crouching low, he punched Rush in the gut with a sledgehammer fist. Rush went down. Tat kicked him before he could hit the pavement, then kicked him again. And again. Rush grabbed the fender of the car and braced himself against the kicks, taking the pain, ready to do something with it.
The car started. Engine roaring, the Lamborghini lurched forward. Rush lost his hold and hit the asphalt. Tat looked startled, like he couldn’t believe Rings was leaving without him.
The distraction was what Rush had been waiting for. He pivoted his legs around and smashed his heel into Tat’s knee with an ugly crunch.
Rings threw the car into reverse and tried to back over Rush, but he had already rolled to the side. He leapt up and reached in the car window, grabbing the shoulder harness and wrapping it around Rings’s throat, choking him.
“Turn off the engine,” Rush told him.
Rings didn’t move. It was a standoff.
Amelia saw her moment. From her vantage point in the passenger seat, she looked around wildly for a weapon. Her hands scrambled at the loose pile of CDs in the back, two acrylic fingernails popping off like tiddlywinks. She snatched up one of the silvery discs and bent it against the dashboard, snapping it in half, then swung it around and pressed the jagged edge against Rings’s bulging throat.
“Do it!” she said.
Rush just had time to admire her quick thinking and notice the fear in Rings’s eyes—not out of recognition that Amelia could really hurt him, but from the knowledge that he was surrounded by lunatics who didn’t know how to behave when reasonably threatened. Then Amelia flung up the car door and jumped out.
She could have warned him, Rush thought.
Rings hit the gas, safety harness strangling him or no, and the Lamborghini shot backward. Hanging on with his big arms, his feet flying, Rush felt the car pivot out into the street. He let go as Rings shifted gears. Hitting the pavement with a vicious thud, he rolled, feeling his skin burn and tear. The sports car squealed away into the night.
Rush lay on the asphalt, looking up at the tan-gray sky that passes for night in L.A. He thought, This is going to hurt in the morning. Then he laughed as he realized how much it hurt right now. He pulled himself to his feet, peeling a shredded piece of T-shirt from the pavement burn on his shoulder and silently cataloging his other injuries. He tried to use his Zen meditation training to stop them from hurting. It didn’t work.
The spectators were still there—farther back, but watching the show. The party girls were going to have more Crush stories to share. One girl was missing, though. The one with the blond hair and the hungry eyes, the object of this whole mess. Rush smiled and noticed to his surprise that he still had all his teeth—even the fake ones. The underage boy was gone too—he must have used the distraction to take his broken arm home. Rush wondered what story he’d cook up for his parents. He’d probably try one on the underage girl too, when she woke up. She looked dim enough to believe him.
Gail made her way through the crowd toward him. Great. Now he’d get a review of his performance. Maybe he should have stayed on the Lamborghini.
“He got away,” she said.
Rush wasn’t sure who she meant at first—then he realized that Skeleton Tattoo was missing as well. That made it a clean sweep. But at least they hadn’t gotten that girl. Whoever the fuck she was.
Before Gail had a chance to say more, Rush spotted something on the pavement. Maybe a shiny distraction would delay the inevitable critique. He picked it up—it was the busted half of the CD. The girl must have dropped it when she made her retreat. He read what was left of the label.
“I wouldn’t have pegged them for Adele fans,” he said.
Gail laughed. The critique could wait until their next lesson. For now, she had to take care of his wounds. He tossed the CD shard and walked with her back into the club.
FOUR
Gail had tended to a wounded Rush before. A couple of years ago, he’d taken a gig protecting a popular female singer from the paparazzi in general and from her ex-husband in particular. The cause of the tug-of-war was the couple’s four-year-old daughter. Each claimed the other was an unfit parent. Each was probably right.
The continued stress of the legal battles led the twenty-two-year-old mother and the twenty-four-year-old father to endless nights of clubbing and drinking and drugging, followed by weeks in rehab, followed by more clubbing and drinking and drugging. In the meantime, the daughter spent most of her time with Rush—he felt more like a nanny than a bodyguard. Still, she was a good kid, and she showed a remarkable aptitude for Muay Thai, or at least the kid-friendly version of Thai boxing that Rush practiced with her when playing with Barbie lost its charm.
He was picking the girl up from a play date while her mom was sleeping off one of her own, when they jumped him. Rush wasn’t sure how they k
new the girl’s schedule—maybe the singer’s mom, who, you guessed it, was estranged from her daughter, told the ex-husband, thinking she’d get to see her granddaughter more if he got sole custody. At any rate, the plan was simple: hire some goons to kidnap the girl, thereby showing that the singer couldn’t protect the kid. Maybe the ex-hubby was planning on staging a daring rescue to cement his own cause. He was enough of an idiot to think that would work.
The plan never got that far.
Rush ended up with various cuts and bruises and welts. The would-be kidnappers ended up with seven broken bones between them. The little girl ended up in her crying mother’s arms—once Mom had come to. (Mother and daughter moved to New York to get away from it all, and Rush lost the job. Last he heard, the singer and her ex were back together, for the sake of the kid. God help her.)
Rush had come home to his loft in downtown L.A. after the attempted kidnapping, stiff and sore. Gail dropped by later on, with a bottle of healing oil. Rush stripped down and she went to work on him, kneading his tight muscles, digging her elbow into his stiff joints, spreading the warm oil all over his flesh, never having to ask where the hurt was, the two of them communicating on some sort of nonverbal, purely physical level.
From the sofa, Zerbe had watched this the way he watched everything—for the vicarious thrill. K. C. Zerbe was Rush’s younger half-brother—well, actually not his brother at all. Rush’s mother had been the third trophy wife of Zerbe’s father. That made them not related by blood. In Rush’s opinion, that was the best kind of relation you could have.
It struck Zerbe as odd, as he had watched Gail rub every inch of Rush’s body, that there wasn’t a damn thing sexual about it for either of them. It was just physical therapy. Zerbe was sure he’d have had a happy ending before she stopped drizzling the oil on him. But then, Zerbe didn’t get out much, as he was the first to admit.
