by Jack Slater
He kept walking slowly as the man passed him yet again, bringing the imaginary conversation to a close when he was out of earshot. Dawes disappeared from view as he turned back onto Wilshire Boulevard.
“Going home?” Trapp murmured, pocketing the cell phone once again.
“Okay, Chino, looks like the lead vehicle just shuffled out,” Ryan reported, clearly far enough away now for the distance to have impacted the strength of the signal. “Either it’s standard protocol or they figured out they got a potential tail. Either way, I need to drop back. I just drove past the Playboy Mansion. I’ll take the next turn. You ready to take over?”
Trapp turned the corner before Chino had a chance to respond, only to see Dawes’ back disappearing for a second time, this time down South Linden Drive. His teeth gritted together, wondering whether his target, too, suspected something was up.
“You got it,” Chino replied. “Coming up behind you now.”
47
Finch placed the telephone call from a pay phone opposite the animal shelter on Lennox Ave. in Van Nuys. He fed the quarters in to the machine wearing gloves.
“Miguel,” he said. “It’s Eric. You’re a hard man to contact in a hurry.”
“Why are you calling me, Eric?” Miguel asked, without a trace of interest. “Our business is complete, is it not?”
“For now,” Finch agreed. “But we have a problem.”
“You have a problem,” Miguel said.
Finch’s beefy fingers squeezed the plastic handset until it creaked. He wasn’t accustomed to people speaking to him the way Miguel did. Although he was incapable of recognizing it, Miguel’s manner was the same one he used when speaking to those he used.
“I have a problem,” he agreed, after a pause that was long enough to become obvious. “One some associates of yours may be able to assist me with.”
“Go on.”
“I lost three…” He paused, searching for the correct word. “Assets. In a shootout in Compton. One more is missing.”
“What has that to do with me?” Miguel asked.
“The guns,” Finch replied. “The barrel markings on the lead fished out of my men all linked back to shootings linked to the Tijuana cartel. And I’m guessing you haven’t gone to war with me. Because if you have, then this is a very different conversation.”
“Guns come and go, my friend,” Miguel laughed. “But even if they did not, I wouldn’t know about such things. I am a peaceful man.”
“Right,” Finch muttered, his tone laced with sarcasm. “I’m sure you are. But maybe you’ve got some friends who aren’t.”
“It takes all sorts,” Miguel replied, which wasn’t exactly a no.
“Listen, all I need to know is whether anyone who works for you sold weapons to a gringo in the last couple of weeks. He’s a couple hundred pounds, dark hair, one eye’s a different color from the other. And I know, you don’t do that kind of thing. But just humor me, okay?”
The telephone line was silent for a few seconds, except for a light background static. “And what is in it for me, my friend?”
“Two percent on the next cargo.”
“Three.”
Finch winced. “Fine. But I need this quick.”
“Life moves at its own pace, Eric,” Miguel said. “Don’t call this number again.”
48
Chino’s fingers drummed anxiously against the Corolla’s cracked faux-leather steering wheel as the gates of the Playboy Mansion briefly hove into view on his right. A white stone statue sat on top of an ivy-draped, backlit marble mural decorated with Grecian figures locked in battle, and then they were gone.
“You should’ve just turned in there, Alex,” he cursed himself. “Spent the night with a couple of lovely ladies, not locked up in the county jail.”
But it was too late to turn back now. Ryan’s pickup truck was two cars ahead, and as Chino tapped the gas pedal to urge the aging Toyota on a little faster, its right indicator light blinked on.
“Over to you, buddy,” he grumbled.
The silver Lexus just behind Ryan’s truck turned off also, leaving only a sparkling black BMW 5 series in between Chino’s venerable vehicle and the two target SUVs.
Ryan’s voice crackled out of the radio handset in the center console. “Keep me in the loop, Chino. I’ll hang back thirty seconds or so, just in case.”
Chino groped for the radio and sent a curt acknowledgment across the net. When his finger pulled away from the transmit button he grunted, “Just in case? Just in case what?”
He kept a steady pace behind the BMW, quite unlike its driver, who was accelerating and braking with equal abandon, riding hard up the tail of the rearmost of Banks’ escort SUVs. It must have been driving the bodyguards insane. He had never been in their shoes, but he could read their thought patterns easy enough. Was the BMW a decoy, designed to attract their attention while another threat positioned to attack?
Of course, the answer was no – but Chino backed off a little bit anyway, just in case the bodyguards got the wrong idea and turned out to be right anyway. Still, on the balance of things, he decided he’d rather have the BMW providing cover than not.
Thank God for assholes.
The rear SUV stomped on the brakes, checking the BMW’s tailgating and coming within a couple of feet of a fender bender. The road ahead curved around to the left, suddenly bathed in electric light as South Beverly Glen Road met Sunset. Traffic lights hung overhead, ticking into amber, and instead of slowing, the driver of the BMW stomped on the gas and swung out past the SUV, building pace as the larger vehicle slowed.
In the glint of light from up ahead, Chino saw the BMW driver’s window roll down, an arm appear, and a plastic drinks container sail through the air, splattering down the side of the big Chevrolet SUV, which slowed instantly, as if the driver was stomping on the brakes in anticipation of an oncoming assault. The black BMW raced past, screaming through the lights as they turned red, and cutting off an oncoming FedEx van.
“Damn,” Chino muttered under his breath. “Guess he really had someplace he needed to be.”
He reached down for the radio handset, careful to keep it out of view of anyone sitting in the rear seats of the SUV, which was now only a couple of car lengths ahead. He was uncomfortably aware that there were no longer any vehicles separating him from his target.
Not ideal.
“Hey, Ryan, you there?” he muttered, trying to move his lips as little as possible. “I’m sitting on Sunset. Looks like we’re going right over.”
“Understood,” came the reply. “I’m just behind you. I’ll stay out of sight. Call if you need me, brother.”
“Will do,” Chino said, dropping the handset back as the lights turned green.
He followed the small motorcade across Sunset Boulevard and up onto Bel Air Road. It was difficult to avoid having his attention stolen away by the grandeur of the houses on either side. Sweeping driveways led up to backlit terra-cotta-roofed villas on the left as the luminous blue of a glowing swimming pool came into sight on the right. Every single one was guarded by a set of towering iron railings.
An LAPD cruiser rolled past on the other side of the road, and Chino was careful to look dead ahead, maintaining the same speed. The last thing he needed was to attract unwanted attention from law enforcement, especially not with a 9 mm pistol and two spare magazines of ammunition in the glove compartment.
But that wasn’t the real problem. No, as the police cruiser disappeared in the rearview mirror, Chino knew that his major malfunction, right now at least, was the fact that he was driving a twenty-year-old piece of crap Corolla through a neighborhood where the next worst car cost ten times what he was driving – and even then, was owned by someone’s pool boy.
And the SUV was only thirty yards up ahead.
So what the hell do I do now?
Trapp ducked behind a palm tree whose towering, slightly curved trunk arched into the inky sky overhead. A small spotlight sat at it
s base, the beam aimed up, momentarily robbing him of his vision.
“Ah, hell,” he cursed, turning his head and shielding his eyes with his right hand as he waited for a few beats for it to pass. He couldn’t risk riding right up Dawes’ ass and spooking the guy. It would be better to lose him entirely. They knew where he was staying, and with any luck, Ryan might have learned something while searching the lieutenant colonel’s hotel room.
Trapp took a deep breath, his eyes still trained on the corner of South Linden without looking like that was the case. He reached for the radio.
“Ryan, Chino, you there?” he transmitted, taking the opportunity of the momentary pause in the chase to get a sit rep. The radio crackled in his ear, but if it was a response, then the words were impossible to make out.
“Chino –” something, “– right behind –” something something, “– out.”
“Real helpful,” he grumbled.
Okay, nice and slow.
Trapp stepped out from behind the palm tree and turned onto the road that Dawes had disappeared down, just in time to see a silhouette that looked like his target stepping through a door and out of sight.
He didn’t break step, maintaining the same pace and direction down the street. Two men, well dressed but clearly inebriated, were standing outside the building that Dawes had entered and cradling cigarettes. A small, discreet brass plaque informed the world – with no additional information – that the place was called The Lounge.
“Hey, guys,” Trapp said, stepping toward the two men with an easy smile on his lips. He jerked his chin at the door. “What is this place?”
The man on the left was tall and gangly, in his thirties but with a teenager’s scrappy beard. He took a drag in on his cigarette but went a little too far and doubled over coughing and sputtering.
His friend looked down and grinned. “Guess Robbie got a little over-excited.” He left his own cigarette between his lips and stuck out his hand. “What’s your name, pal?”
“James,” Trapp lied. “Nice to meet you.”
“Want a light?” his confidant replied, pulling a box of Camels out of his back pocket and offering one.
Trapp didn’t smoke but took one anyway. He placed it between his lips and leaned toward a flickering flame that his new friend conjured out of nowhere. “Thanks.”
“No problem,” the man replied between drags. “Name’s Jackson. And that creature down there, as you’ve probably guessed, is Robbie. Never could handle his drink.”
“Fuck you, Jay,” Robbie hissed, his throat raw. “Anyway, you didn’t answer the guy’s question, did you?”
Jackson turned back and draped his arm around Trapp’s shoulder. “I guess I didn’t. This, my friend, is the best damn strip club this side of Las Vegas.”
Trapp grinned. “I heard a rumor. Glad to hear I was right. Mind if I join you?”
Jackson tossed the cigarette down and stubbed it out with the heel of his boot. “Not a bit.”
He knocked on the gleaming, black-lacquered wooden door, which opened with impossible alacrity to reveal a slender woman in a body-hugging red cocktail dress with blond hair that rushed her shoulders.
Robbie surged past both Trapp and his friend, still coughing into the back of his hand, and muttered, “We made a friend.”
The woman looked Trapp up and down, then stretched out her hand. “Entrance is $100, sir.”
Trapp nearly had a coughing fit of his own. But instead he played it cool, reaching into his pocket and bringing out a folded green bill, which he handed over casually, like he did this sort of thing all the time.
The banknote disappeared, and in its place an ink stamp appeared. Trapp offered the back of his hand obligingly, and a couple of seconds later, it was marked with the letters T and L, intertwined in cursive.
He followed his two new friends down a set of narrow stairs between walls that were padded with black velvet. A low, forgettable beat emanated from the room at the foot of the stairs, growing louder the closer he got. As he set foot on level ground, Trapp’s eyes swept left and right, searching for Dawes even as they adjusted to the darkness.
Jackson turned and grinned broadly at him. “What did I tell you? Ain’t no place like this one.”
Trapp was inclined to agree. Between five years as an enlisted soldier and five months of moping around the Southwest, he had encountered more than his fair share of such establishments. The Lounge was the best by far, though it was a low bar.
It was still early, so the club was only a third full, which made Dawes easy to spot. The two men led Trapp to their table, a low, dark-stained hardwood coffee table a few feet from the nearest stage, and across the room from his target. Before they had a chance to sit down, a scantily clad waitress with a broad, fake smile and a chest of equally uncertain provenance came to take their order.
“Just a beer, thanks.” Trapp grinned, pulling a third chair over from a nearby table and setting it next to the other two. He positioned it so that he would be shielded from Dawes’ gaze by the stage, but not enough to cut off his own line of sight.
“Make that three,” Jackson roared with a wink.
Trapp winced at the sound, which echoed around the quiet strip club with the force of a NASCAR starting grid. Thankfully, though the sudden uproar attracted a couple of half-interested glances, the person who mattered had his eyes locked onto a sultry African American dancer who presently had her arms raised skyward, gently caressing the gleaming metal pole as she sank slowly into a squat.
He looked away, careful not to fixate on Dawes. He’d sometimes felt the skin on the back of his own neck prickle, only to learn seconds later that his subconscious was trying to send him a warning. Trapp didn’t know how it worked, just that it did.
Instead, he casually looked around the club, smiling pleasantly as though he did this sort of thing every night. Inside, though, all he felt was shame. Shame for being in a place like this. Shame that he was here while Shea was still lying in a hospital bed. Shame for any part he’d ever played in the way these women were forced to make their living.
“Damn,” Jackson groaned to his left, his eyes locked onto the dancer’s rear end. “They don’t make them that way anymore.”
Trapp chose to ignore the comment, though he wasn’t sure how the club could hire women any younger and still remain on the right side of the law. He eyed Jackson without the man noticing and couldn’t decide whether he felt pity or disgust.
Perhaps a little of both.
“I’m going to take a leak,” he muttered as he stood.
Neither man looked away from the entertainment on offer, but one of them called out, “Sure you are, champ,” to his departing back.
Trapp navigated the maze of low tables and engrossed customers, thankful for the dark as he passed only a few feet behind Dawes. He did indeed take a leak, but as he was on his way out of the bathroom, one of the dancers constantly circling the establishment caught his eye. “Need some company, honey?”
Trapp shook his head and was about to turn away when an idea struck him. He spoke quietly. “You work last night?”
“Every one this week,” she confirmed with a gentle self-control, closing the gap between the two of them and dragging her fingernails down his torso. “Why?”
Trapp sculpted his expression so as not to look too eager. He glanced meaningfully at Dawes and watched for the brunette’s gaze to follow. “You ever see that guy before?”
Her brow furrowed. “Which one?”
“The bald one.”
She giggled. “That really don’t narrow it down none.”
He concealed a grimace and smiled instead, noticing for the first time that both Jackson and Robbie were watching his every move with gleeful told-you-so expressions on their faces. Using the dancer’s body to shield his arm, he reached out and pointed. “Him.”
She smiled. “You gonna ask my name?”
“How much?” he said instead.
“Fifty,” she replie
d without an ounce of shame. “But you can call me Sheila for free.”
Trapp reached into his pocket and handed over another hundred. “All I have, Sheila.”
She shrugged. “Guess it’ll have to do…”
“So?”
She took him by the hand. “Not here. Follow me.”
Trapp recoiled. “I don’t want the dance.”
Sheila looked surprisingly hurt and stopped dead. “You don’t like what you see?”
“It’s not that…” Trapp said, knowing he would be unable to find the words to convey what he needed to. “It’s a personal thing, okay?”
“Well, I gotta take you to the private room,” Sheila said, now pleading. “Else they’ll think I’m turning tricks.”
“Fine,” Trapp said through gritted teeth, picturing Shea in a place like this, and not liking what he saw. “But what about him?”
She stopped a second time, turning to squint at the back of Dawes’ head. “That guy? Sure, he’s been in here every night this week. By the time he leaves he can barely stand, let alone walk.”
The exclusive Bel Air neighborhood was quiet this late at night, and the luxurious mansions on either side of Chino’s car were lit up like beacons as the road climbed up into the hills. Every now and again, through a gap between them, Chino caught glimpses of the slope toppling away steeply to the valley below. Now that the night had fully fallen over Los Angeles, the glow of the city below only contrasted with the inky nothingness of the hillside.
Just fucking great.
He’d never liked heights. Especially ones he couldn’t see.
“I can’t come too close, buddy,” Ryan said through the radio. “Not enough traffic.”
Chino just reached blindly for the handset and clicked the transmit button twice. He couldn’t risk anyone within the motorcade seeing him with it. He drove for another three minutes as a cauldron of anxiety built in his stomach. Every time he blinked he saw flashes of that night in Iraq when his life had changed forever.
