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 The rough-and-tumble new thriller by the national best-selling author | |||||||||||
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(read or print)  "Buy you a drink?" Munch turned to size up the man who had spoken to her. His sad, baggy eyes were set in a basset hound face. A five o'clock shadowrolled in and out of the loose folds of skin on his cheeks andchins. Deep lines creased his forehead. She squinted a little tobring him into focus, then looked at her glass. There was only iceleft.What the hell. She shrugged an indifferent acceptance."Jack Daniel's, Black Label." She always said "Black Label" when sheordered. She didn't know what it meant or if it was any better thanany other colored label, but she liked the way itsounded.The man pulled a worn leather wallet out of his back pocket. Heextracted a twenty and put it on the bar. He held up two fingers toBenny the bartender, and the money was swept away."What's your name?" the sad-eyed man asked.She glanced at the fancy bottles stacked against the mirror behindthe bar. "Sherry," she told him. "How's that? And we'll call youJohn.""Sounds fair enough."His skin was sallow, even in the dark and forgiving rouged lightthat reflected off the bottles of liquor. She thought he lookedtired, beaten down. The calculation that followed was automatic.Taking into account his age, his clothes, and the bulge in hiswallet, she knew he'd probably go thirty, enough for a spoon, asix-pack, and a bag of Fritos. Not that she was interested. Thatpart of her life was over. She was getting a fresh start, beginningtoday. He smiled at her. Maybe even an extra twenty, she amended,making her mouth curve upwards, if he were stupid enough to leavehis pants in the room when he went to the bathroom. The mancollected his change, and while his attention was diverted, she tooka second long look. At least he wasn't old. She hated it when theywere old. It took them forever.The negotiations would begin after the second drink, each of them speaking in carefully coached phrases.She had once been busted for telling a middle-aged man in a Chrysler that she had a place. That was all that she'd said. "I got a place."It was right after he had asked her if she was looking for adate."Everybody's got a place, don't they?" she had protested as the vice cop slid the handcuffs on. They hadn't even discussed a price orservice to be performed. The cop had just shaken his head. "Save it for the judge," hesaid.Supposedly if you asked them if they were a cop, they had to tellyou, or they couldn't not tell you. Something about entrapment.She'd never put much stock in that theory; it was probably just somehooker myth. Not a hard and fast rule like "Always get the moneyfirst.""I'll buy the next round," she said. One drink and some of theseguys thought they owned you. He blinked slowly and his mouth dropped open. It reminded her of oneof those lizards they show close up on National Geographic specials.Lashless lids closing over dry eyeballs. It pleased her that she hadsurprised him."Whatever you say, Sherry."Maybe he thought that she'd get so drunk that she'd do him for free. That wasn't going to happen, not today. Just one more for the roadand she was out of there. She'd already gone ten hours with no dope,eight of which were on purpose. It wasn't much, but it was a start,and certainly longer than she'd ever gone when she had achoice.Benny set down two fresh cocktail napkins. She smiled when sherecognized the red, white, and blue coasters. He had bought themlast year to celebrate the bicentennial. In his patriotic zeal, hehad purchased an entire gross. Cases of them were still stacked tothe ceiling in the storeroom. Someone had suggested that he stockthe bathrooms with them. He was a vet, he said, and he didn't thinkthat would be right. But Lincoln's birthday? The irony wasn't loston her. The Venture Inn catered to a color-conscious crowd. Youwouldn't think Abraham Lincoln would rank as one of theirheroes."Honoring dead presidents, are we?" she asked him."Always, doll," Benny said as he slammed down their drinks. She scooped up her glass before the liquor had a chance tosettle.The life had been fun once, when she was young and fresh. Sex had never been sacred, just an easy means to an easy end. Just let themcatch you, she was advised early on, that's all a woman has to doand the money flows in. It flowed out just as easily, going to buythe only thing that ever made her feel loved. The dope had been hersalvation.She massaged an abscess on her forearm and winced at the tenderness of the damaged flesh. She didn't need to look at the knot beneathher fingertips to know that the abscess was red and angry, she couldfeel the heat of the infection through the fabric of her blouse. Theabscess was her own fault, a result of shooting barbiturates whenshe was already too loaded to see straight, much less do a properjob of giving herself a fix. Stupid, she thought, stupid and awaste. Her whole life was a waste. It was time for a change. She'dgo to the country and dry out, start over.She never minded the sting of the needle; in fact, she welcomed it. The jab followed by that rush of relief as the thick red bloodspurted back into the syringe to mix with the dope, turning it all amuddy color. Then a slow squeeze of the plunger, sending theprecious elixir through her bloodstream. Eyes closed, she picturedthe dope's path, flowing through every vein, artery, and capillarytill it reached her scalp, the tips of her toes, and that darkscreaming place in her gut that needed to be quieted."Been here long?" the sad-eyed man asked.His voice cut into her thoughts, startled her. She'd forgotten hewas there with his tired face and too many questions."Too long." She shook her head, angry at the way her thoughts hadturned. Focused, she needed to stay focused. Less than one full dayclean and she was already mooning over the dope like some jiltedlover. She knew from previous experience what to expect. The firstthree days would be the worst. Her bones would ache and the cravingswould consume her, canceling out every other thought. She'd gonethrough it all before. Periodically, she would taper off. Uncheckedaddiction gets expensive, the habit snowballs, growing steadily tillit might cost as much as seventy dollars a day just to get even,never mind high. But those times she hadn't quit so completely, onlycut down, supplementing the smaller amounts of heroin with pills andbooze till her tolerance decreased. This time would bedifferent.The funny thing about dope was that she hadn't thought the high wasanything special at first. Kind of a dreamy, sleepy numbness. Ithadn't really gotten good till she was strung out. The monster was asneaky bastard.She scratched at the scabs on her forearms. Soon she'd be able towear short sleeves again. She wouldn't have to cover the tattoos ofneedle marks running from wrist to armpit. She might even buy somenew clothes, something that fit. The pants from the Salvation Armydonation box were three sizes too big. She hadn't spent money onanything but dope unless she absolutely had to.She was ready to admit it, the life wasn't fun anymore. Likeeverything and everyone else, it had turned on her. They didn't stopfor her anymore on Venice Boulevard, not even on Main Street. Themen cruised past slowly in their Cadillacs and Continentals; eventhe Mexicans in the pickup trucks passed her by. They avoided herbold stares in search of fresher game. The dope had stopped working,too. It wasn't that the drugs were too weak or that she had beenburned. All the physical signs were still there. Her eyes would takeon an eerie dull shine like a pair of those Duncan yo-yos thatglowed in the dark -- a flag to the narcs who circled theneighborhood. Her nose still itched and her pupils still pinned,shrinking to tiny dots. But it seemed that no matter how much dopeshe did, the old magic was gone. The antsy unnamed need, the hole inher gut, remained.She turned to the man sitting next to her and said fiercely: "I'mputting down." She didn't expect him to understand. If he knew her,he wouldn't believe her. No one ever believed a hype could beanything but a hype. Fuck 'em."Cheers." She finished her drink and banged the bar top with an openpalm. "Two more, Benny." When she saw the bartender's hesitation,she added, "For the road."She knew Benny kept close track of his patrons' limits. He ran atight operation, avoiding trouble when he could. He never let thejukebox play a maudlin love song near closing time; it put people ina fighting mood. When a biker got rowdy, Benny was right there. He'dclamp a warning hand on the guy's shoulder and grin him out of it.Behind that grin was a sawed-off baseball bat. Benny stayed friendlyas long as he could."You never want to insult a drunk in front of his friends," Bennytold her once. "It makes them do stupid things. Things that can getyour scalp laid open."He preferred to keep the mood upbeat. He was Irish when he wanted tobe and now sang in a gravelly brogue as he poured two more whiskeys."For the road, little darlin'."She reached in the pocket of her baggy corduroy coat and pulled outa wad of bills. Finding a ten among the fives and ones, she paid forthe drinks."Straight up, Benny."Benny threw the ice he had already filled her glass with behind hisback like spilled salt."Free ice for everybody," he yelled. The bikers playing pool sworeat him affectionately. Benny laughed and sprayed seltzer in the airover his head. He shook his long beard and shaggy head of curls asthe mist fell into them. He looked like one of those characters in aDisney movie -- the goofy professor who accidentally crosses himselfwith a dog. Benny was a standard poodle in a black motorcyclejacket.She pulled a Lucky Strike from the other pocket of her coat. Bennyleaned towards her with his lighter. "John" beat him toit.She grabbed his hand to steady the match."Thanks."He shook the match out and let it drop to the floor. It sputteredamid the beer and sawdust."I just came in to square up my account. I'm getting out of here,"she said, almost to herself."Why?" the man at her elbow asked.She studied him for a while before answering, choosing her words. "I don't want to be dead anymore." She pointed to their reflections inthe mirror behind the bar. "Look at us. Do you see any sign oflife?" Rubbing a finger across the black circles under her eyes, shesaid, "I look like a zombie." She leaned towards him as if to sharea confidence. "Dope is poison."He didn't seem surprised; maybe he didn't get it."I shouldn't be telling you this." She downed the bourbon in onewincing gulp and dropped her voice to a whisper. "I'm a junkie."Raising her glass in a toast, she corrected herself, "Was." Emptyglass still raised, she tried to get Benny's attention, but his backwas turned to her."What happened?" the man asked quietly, swinging her attention back to his direction."What happened?" Her face twisted in on itself as she struggled to find the words to explain. She let the pain show through her eyes,letting her guard down for a stranger she'd never see again. "I'lltell you what happened. I didn't notice till this morning. I was ina bathroom." She spent a lot of time in bathrooms, usually with thedoor locked, crouched on the floor with a tie on her arm. She didn'ttell him that part. "There were these real bright lights and a bigmirror over the sink. I looked at myself, really looked, and it waslike a veil lifted for a second. I'm dying here." She confronted hernewfound confidant in the mirror."Look at you. You got it, too. Look at your face. You're allwrinkled and sad. Are you happy? Is it worth it, what youdo?""Sometimes, not always." He went back to his drink, but she saw hestill watched her. A steady, dead eye locked on her over the rim ofhis bucket glass. Maybe there was hope for him, too.She grabbed his arm. "Let's get out of here.""Where would we go?""To the country. I'm sick of the city. The city's poison,too.""You'll need money.""I've got enough for what I need to do." She slapped the bar again."Benny, my man, another one. Then I gotta go."The bartender walked over to where she sat. He planted his handsfirmly on the bar, palms down, and waited till she had to look athim.She sucked it in and put on a show of sobriety. "Last one, Ipromise."Benny considered, then relented with a hoarse Wolfman Jack laugh."The road is calling," he sang out.John put a hand over his glass and shook his head. Benny turned toother customers.A thin youth snuck into the bar, casting furtive glances towards thebartender's direction, and sidled up to her. The boy's wary eyesdarted to the bikers playing pool and then back to her. Oily blondhair fell to his collar. The stingy growth of a first mustacheglistened with beads of sweat on his upper lip. "Where's FlowerGeorge?" he asked her and drew the sleeve of his t-shirt across hismouth."I don't know." She pushed the boy away. "Why d'ya ask me? Screwhim.""I'm out of flowers. He promised me." The boy wiped his palms on hisjeans. "I haven't had any flowers all day." His voice took on anextra note of urgency when he said "flowers.""Time to get out of the flower business, kid." She turned her backon the boy."Who's this George? Your boyfriend?" her drinking companion asked."I'm not going to have some jealous biker sticking a gun in my face,am I?""Flower George is an old man. You don't have to worry abouthim.""How old are you, Sherry?""Twenty-one." She raised her glass to Benny. "Or I wouldn't be here,right?""That's right, sugar." Benny's liquor license was on probation forserving underage girls. He had to be careful who he let in, eventhough it broke his black Irish heart to turn away the succulentyoung things who came to the Venture Inn in search ofthrills."Tell me about George."She swirled her keys in the dimes of water standing on the thicklacquer of the bar top. Drawing the water into lines, she watched asthe tiny rivulets returned to the mother puddle. Eventually shebroke off a drop of water that quivered alone. "Hotel California"played on the jukebox."What's to tell? He sells flowers. I don't know where he gets them,probably picks them in the country somewhere." She looked down asshe spoke and let her lips go slack. "He drives this big white vanfull of flowers. He gives them to the kids to sell. You know, thekids who stand on the corners with those five-gallon plasticbuckets. You gotta keep the flowers in water. They still don't last.The city murders them.""What was that you said?" He leaned closer. She could see the redveins in his sad, tired eyes. "I didn't hear the lastpart.""It's a good business." She sat upright and patted the wad in herpocket. "All cash.""Is he mean to the kids? Did he beat you?""He's old, did I tell you that? Old men are a pain in the ass. Youknow what I mean? He's always asking me, 'Is it hard yet?'" shemimicked, making a face with downturned mouth and peering eyes. "'AmI in?'"The man pulled away from her, blinking faster. She knew she hadshocked him, and that realization spurred her on."He didn't even know when he was hard. I mean, why bother? Right?How do you know when it's over?" At some point, it should be over.She noticed the glass in her hand. How had it emptied so quickly?She had only meant to stop there for a moment. She had planned topay Benny what she owed him, square her debt and then hit the road.Then he had bought her a drink to say "thank you"; she had boughtanother to say "you're welcome." She turned to her companion. "Hey,it sure has gotten drunk out."A flash of blue intersected the red lights reflected in the mirrorover the bar. Sirens whined on their way to the Oakwood Projects,Ghost Town to the locals. The bar door swung open and a shaft oflight made it to the back wall before being extinguished. Motes ofdust swirled in the rays of the setting sun. Soon the light would begone, marking the midway point of another lost weekend inVenice.She caught a glimpse of the activity on the street in the mirror andrealized that she had stayed way too long. "I gotta use the head.Save my place."After she got up, Benny emptied the ashtray she had used and spoketo her companion from the side of his mouth. "Stay away from her,man," Benny growled in his borderline laryngitis. "She'shot.""Hot?""She's got the clap. She won't do nothing about it."The hound-faced man waited a few minutes, alternately watching thedoors and the entrance to the bathrooms. His shoulders hunchedforward in an attitude of indifference to his surroundings, but hiseyes took in everything around him: thickly tattooed bikers playedpool and postured for each other; leather-clad women hung on theirmen's arms, glaring at each other under heavily made up lids. Therewas a Confederate flag tacked to the far wall. By the door, a signthat said "No Niggers" hung next to a dart board full of bulletholes.He nodded to a man leaning against the wall in a blue knit stockingcap and a three-day growth of beard. The man stood up and ambledtowards the bathrooms."Shit," Detective Mace St. John swore when he glanced down at thebar top and noticed that her keys were gone.Munch emptied the pockets of the big coat, taking only what sheabsolutely needed, and left the bulky jacket on the floor of thebathroom. The coat was too cumbersome and she needed to move fast.She crawled out the tiny window and dropped behind the dumpster inthe parking lot. A bolt of fiery agony shot up her shin when she hitthe ground. Her mouth went dry as a surge of adrenaline dried up thepain. She had to think. Dammit. She needed a clear head.Deafening noise filled the alley that ran behind the bar. Into theback parking lot, twelve members of the Satan's Pride MotorcycleClub arrived en masse. Their colors were vivid patches of red andblack sewn on cutoff Levi vests. Satan's Pride MC on the top bannerand Venice, California down below. The center logo was a bikerastride a '58 panhead with a woman's head in his hand. He washolding the head by her hair and the woman was screaming. In thebackground were flames.The Harleys roared a thundering finale. The bikers gunned theirengines till flames shot out the back of their illegal straightpipes; somewhere a car alarm went off. Unsmiling, they shut offtheir choppers. The ol' ladies untied their hair and waited whiletheir men chained their bikes together.She crawled till she reached the corner of the brick wall.Carefully, she poked her head around and stole a look at the frontentrance. Three men shone long, black flashlights through thewindows of the van. Cops. She was stupid to drive the vanthere.She crawled to the other end of the parking lot and took off downthe alley.Detective Sergeant Mace St. John pulled a pen out of his shirtpocket. He tilted her glass over and, without touching the surface,dropped it into a plain brown paper bag that he extracted from hispocket. Then he dated and initialed the front of the bag and wrote ashort description of the contents. Benny watched wordlessly, rubbing down the bar top and dryingglasses with the same terrycloth rag he used for everything. St.John threw a five on the bar to cover the cost of the glass andasked for a receipt.The detective gave a slow, disgusted blink and shook his head. He'dmisjudged her. He was slipping. He waited for the undercover officerin the blue knit cap to come back inside.The man hung back till Mace gestured for him to joinhim."We lost her.""I figured. Little rugrat like that probably knows these alleysinside and out. Let's get out of here."They walked out front. A tow truck driver was waiting for thefingerprint man to finish dusting the driver's door handle of awhite van."Open it," the detective instructed. The tow truck driver coaxed thedriver's side door lock up with a slim jim. "Dust the steeringwheel, and then get it out of here." He turned to a second cop."Does the ME have anything for us?""Nothing more than the obvious. Cause of death: murder by gunshotwounds to the head. He sent the bullets toBallistics.""No rush." Mace held up the evidence bag. "Let's get a make on theseprints so we can match them to the ones in the vehicle and thehouse." He looked down the alley. "The girl's a hype. She won't gofar.""What do you want to do now, Sarge?""Let's go back to the house for a final lookover." Mace checked hiswatch. It was almost six o'clock.The call had come in at noon. A black-and-white responded to thehysterical call that there had been a shooting on Brooks. Uniformedofficers investigated and called in a code 187, murder to find. Aneasy determination. No suicide ever managed to place six rounds inhis own face. St. John was on call that weekend and scheduled toreceive whatever murder case came along. He hadn't made any otherplans; chances were high he'd catch a case. Tensions between theall-black Shoreline Crips and Chicano V-13 gangs had been building.With Valentine's Day right around the corner, they could expect ajump in domestics as well. He knew that sometimes the murder statsjump for no apparent reason. Different guys had their theories. Someblamed the full moon, a sudden heat wave, whatever. You get a weekwhere the city just erupts. Who can say for sure what brings it on?This week was starting off badly and the weather was stillcool.By one-thirty he was at the death scene wearing an old pair ofslacks and a sweat-stained t-shirt. The dispatcher reached him atthe gym where he'd spent the morning sparring and preparing hisprotege, a bantamweight seventeen-year-old fresh off the street, foran upcoming bout. The good fighters never come from between cleansheets, Digger had taught him that.St. John's shield hung on a thin chain around his neck; his servicerevolver was concealed under his windbreaker. He arrived at thehouse in an unmarked Chevrolet. A group of teenagers huddled acrossthe street, mostly white kids. When the detective approached them,they scattered like cockroaches.Flower George's house was on the fringe of Ghost Town, a low stuccobuilding that squatted ungracefully next to abandoned PacificElectric tracks. Graffiti blackened the walls and the sheets ofplywood that were nailed over the window frames. The house wassurrounded by a chain-link fence with a foot of indestructible fastfood wrappers woven into the bottom of it. An assortment of baldtires and beer bottles littered the front yard. Mace ordered theyellow tape to be strung. He climbed the stairs of the front porch,past the dying, anemic clumps of dandelions and foxtails that hadsurrendered to the city soot, and went inside.He stepped over the two-by-four nailed to the hardwood floor in theentry hall, part of a homegrown barricade system. The board wasapproximately the same width as the plank of wood leaning againstthe doorjamb. Once the door was shut and the board in place, thiswould be a very difficult house to enter. It hadn't made it anysafer for the body lying inside.Inside job.He walked down the dark hallway. His flashlight revealed a mattresson the floor of every dirty room. The body was in the third room heentered. A uniformed cop stood at the doorway. St. John nodded tothe officer and went inside. The corpse was naked and turning lightyellow as the blood drained to the lowest point of the body. Itsmelled of vomit and excrement, not all of it fresh. The detectivepulled a jar of Vicks mentholated jelly out of his pocket andgenerously swathed each nostril. He offered some to the cop in thedoorway, and the man accepted it gratefully.Mace studied the face, what was left of it. The right socket wasempty. The detective's flashlight found a glass eye in the corner ofthe room. The startled eyeball stared back at him from a nest ofspider webs and burnt matches. He counted the entry wounds. Theywere made by a small-caliber bullet and grouped close together.Probably a .22, fired at close range. Small coronas of powder burnstattooed the jaundiced skin.Mace's new partner, Detective Patrolman Tony Cassiletti, joined him.Together they stood over the body; an expression of revulsiontwisted the younger man's face."Welcome to the glamour of homicide," St. John said and handedCassiletti the dark blue jar of balm.Cassiletti asked, "What do you make of it?""I'd say the perp was very pissed off." The rookie noddedthoughtfully, as if his superior had just provided him with somedeep insight."Look at this." Cassiletti lifted the sheet draped over the victim'sfoot. There was a tattoo on the sole of the left foot that read:"Hang it here, motherfucker." An arrow pointed to a dotted line inblue around the big toe. "Here's one for your collection,Sarge."Mace took a picture of the tattoo. "Another fine, upstandingcitizen." He straightened and arched his back. Planting a palm atthe base of his spine, he stifled a yawn with the back of his otherhand. "We got a name yet?"Cassiletti consulted his notepad. His hands shook. Mace noted thehigh color in his cheeks. Cassiletti was new to the detail; a recenttransfer from City Hall security, serving the mayor at campaigndinners. The most action he had probably seen was the subduing of adrunk at a United Way fundraiser. "Full name: George Mancini akaFlower George. He had a record: Pandering, contributing, small-timedealer. Looks like whoever croaked him did the world afavor."Mace smiled at the younger man. Sounded like Cassiletti had beenwatching too many movies.The background check revealed a Ford Econoline Van registered to thedeceased. The van was also missing. "Put out an APB on the van. Callme if it shows up." Mace made a note of the plate number. "Anywitnesses?" he asked the cop in the doorway.The man laughed. "Yeah, as soon as we come up with the perp we'llhave twenty slimebags ready to do their civic duty and say they sawhim twenty miles away all morning.""Her." Mace looked at the cluster of bullet holes. "The shooter willbe a her. A guy would fire two rounds, three tops, even in a rage.We're looking for a very angry lady."The van was spotted four hours later at the Venture Inn, a bikerdive at the end of Venice Boulevard. It had been almost too easy,until the girl eluded them.Mace watched the van lumber off on the hook of the tow truck. Hesighed. The lieutenant wasn't going to be happy. St. John consoledhimself with the thought that in a day, it would be forgotten. Whenthe girl's identity was confirmed, he'd issue a warrant for herarrest. Within the month, they'd probably pick her up on somethingelse. If they were lucky, her prints would catch up with her whileshe was still in custody. There was always a chance she'd make itout on her own recognizance, but they'd bust her again. She wasn'tgoing far; that type never did. He made a note to himself to posther picture in the squad room and give a copy to Vice, too. This onewas going down.
Cassiletti looked confused."Asshole versus asshole," Mace translated, "no human involved." He grinned at the rookie detective. "What say we call it aday?"The other cop nodded and looked relieved. Mace guessed that heprobably had someone waiting for him at home, worrying about him. Itwas easier to have no one. He'd figure that out for himself. | | |||||||||
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First Look at the Crime is available on MysteryNet.com: The Online Mystery Network. Copyright © 1999 Newfront Productions, Inc. and HarperCollins Publishers | |||||||||||
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