Blues in the Night (11 page)

‘Gee-zus. Never even heard of any dudes like that. Sure they weren't yankin' your chain?'

‘I'm pretty sure it was no joke,' Mace said, thinking of the bodies at the beach house. ‘They were using a mustard-colored limo.'

‘Yuck. You get the plate number?'

‘No,' Mace said. Why hadn't he? He closed his eyes, trying to recall. When Thomas had marched him to the vehicle, he hadn't had a clear view of either its front or rear. On the country road, the license plate had been obscured by a trail of dust. He wasn't even sure if it was a California plate.

‘The driver was a guy they called Sweets. Black dude, maybe six-one. Tried to shoot Lacotta yesterday and I had to break his wrist.'

‘Holy crap. When were you gonna tell me about
that
?'

‘I should have. Sorry. You know the guy?'

Wylie shook his head.

‘He told Lacotta he worked for Tiny Daniels.'

‘Black?' Wylie frowned. ‘The only guys I see with Tiny are slick-looking white butt-boys.'

A sudden surge of music came from Wylie's pocket. A TV series theme, Mace thought, though there was no way he could name the show.

Wylie got out his cellular and put it to his ear. ‘Wylie.'

He listened a beat, said, ‘Right here,' and tossed the phone to Mace.

Mace had to study it a bit before putting it to his ear. ‘Yeah?'

‘Cops got a lot of the area roped off,' Lacotta said. ‘You were lucky you left when you did.'

‘What about the rental?' Mace asked, getting to his feet. He headed toward the bathroom.

‘Taken care of. Relax. Get some sleep.'

Mace closed the bathroom door and lowered his voice. ‘How much do you want Wylie to know about the murders?'

‘Whatever he reads in the papers tomorrow. Unless you feel he should know you're part of that sad tragedy.'

‘He should be clued in on just how deadly these guys are.'

‘You've had a rough day. Get some sleep. You worry too much.'

‘Maybe,' Mace said and terminated the call.

He returned to the table by the window and gave Wylie his phone back.

‘What's up?' Wylie asked.

Mace felt Wylie deserved a little more information. ‘These guys, Sweets and the Brit brothers, you don't want to screw around with this crew,' he said. ‘If they show, head the other way. Once you're clear, give me a call. Understand?'

‘No. I don't. Sweets is a pussy. And from what you say, the Limeys don't sound like much. A skinny fag with an ascot and his brain-dead brother. No big threat.'

‘I thought you didn't know Sweets,' Mace said. ‘What makes you think he's a pussy?'

Wylie frowned, then said, ‘You told me you broke his wrist. Anyway . . .'

When Wylie did not finish that thought, Mace said, ‘Anyway what?'

Wylie shook his head. ‘Nothing,' he said. ‘I got nothing.'

Mace stared at the punk and wondered what he was holding back. He could probably get it out of him with three or four more shots of whiskey. But he didn't have the time or the patience.

He pulled his two-suiter from under his bed and opened it. He removed a fresh shirt from his still-unpacked clothes, shook it out and put it on.

He looked down at his dusty trousers. The left knee, scraped in the leap from the limo, was a shade lighter than the rest. He didn't care. He tried to beat some of the dust out, but the material had been damaged. Too bad. He undid the belt, button and zipper and tucked in his shirt before reversing the process.

‘That the gizmo to start your rental?' he asked, picking up a small black device from the table beside Wylie's bed.

‘My smart key, yeah. Why . . . ?'

Mace headed for the door.

‘Whoa,' Wylie said. ‘Time for
you
to house-sit. 'm gettin' hungry.'

‘I'll bring something back,' Mace said. ‘Cheeseburger OK?'

Wylie stared at him. ‘Yeah. That's fine.' He turned, picked up the binoculars and trained them on the opposite wing of the building. ‘What if she goes out?'

‘I don't see that happening,' Mace said. ‘Oh, and I wouldn't be lingering at the window with the spyglasses. She may be visited by the cops tonight and I hear they're on the lookout for stalkers these days.'

‘Cops coming here? Why?'

‘It's what they do. So just take a quick check from time to time without the binocs. Make sure she's still there.'

‘Wait a minute . . .!' Wylie yelled.

But he was alone in the apartment.

SEVENTEEN

M
ace stood on the sidewalk in front of a run-down stucco duplex on Orange Avenue. He didn't see Simon S. Symon's broken-down grape Cherokee parked anywhere, but it could have been tucked away in a garage. The duplex's front door was open and a rectangle of light from its hallway spilled out over cracked and peeling white wooden steps and a section of sun-scorched yellow lawn.

An overweight woman stood in the doorway, cradling a crying baby in one fleshy arm, while she used the other to bring a cigarette to her pouty lips. Pink shorts cut into bulging thighs. She was wearing a tight, faded green T-shirt with a bib that rested on her jutting breasts like a doily on an overstuffed chair. Mace figured she wore the bib in case the baby got so irritated by the cigarette smoke it had to throw up.

The woman stared at him with mild curiosity.

He checked the address on the business card.

‘Lookin' for the little ho-ers?' she asked, not unkindly.

‘Shoot On Site Photography,' Mace said.

‘Yeah. Like I said. Aroun' back. One flight up. Don't do nothing I wouldn't do.'

At the rear of the apartment house, Mace found a wooden stairwell so old it had turned gray. It led up to a closed screen and wooden door combination above which a flickering bulb provided only very dim light.

If his climb up the squeaking, wobbling stairwell alerted anyone in the apartment, there was no outward sign. Someone was home. He heard sounds. A cough. A throat being cleared.

He applied his knuckles to the wooden frame of the screen door.

No response.

It was unlocked. The door past it was flimsy and paint-cracked. He used the side of his fist to hammer against it, shaking it mightily. This resulted in the sound of bare feet padding toward him.

The door opened as far as a brass chain allowed. A teenage girl peered out. Her round face had the potential for pretty, once it lost the baby fat and the chalky make-up. And the assortment of metal items piercing the flesh of her ears and nose, including, Mace noted, both a tiny mezuzah and a silver pork chop. She was wrapped in a ratty pink bathrobe.

‘Yea-uh?' she asked.

‘I'm looking for Symon.'

‘Got no Symon. No Siegfried. No Seinfeld. We ain't got no esses, Esse.'

Mace tried to look past the girl, where a shaft of light caused shadows to dance around the darkened room. ‘Tell Symon it's the guy with fifty bucks for him,' he said.

‘Don't you listen, handsome? No Symon here.' She slammed the door.

There was muffled conversation in the room. Mace was about to knock again, when the door opened. This time the female behind the chain was taller, bigger boned, and about a decade past the teen years. Blonde, sunburned. No hardware dangling from her face. Had that post-starlet look of disillusioned, fading beauty. She was wearing bikini panties and a push-up bra, smiling placidly, as if greeting a stranger at the door in her underwear were her thing.

She gave Mace a head-to-toe appraisal and said, ‘You look like fun. I vote we let you in.'

She shut the door long enough to slip the chain, then opened it all the way. He stepped into a small, sparsely furnished room. A video projector rested on a footstool casting silent, moving images on a wall to the right. In the ambient light, Mace observed a rescue-mission brown couch, three chairs, two of them matching the couch, the third a yellow beanbag, the kind he hadn't seen since he was a kid.

The girl with the embedded face jewelry was drifting toward a couple lounging on colorful pillows on the bare wooden floor, watching the wall. The prone girl had brown hair worn long over a flimsy caftan. She drank from a Coke can and passed the can to the boy beside her, a muscular teen who looked like he belonged on a surfer poster, except for the tattoo of Botticelli's Venus on his cut, hairless chest. He was wearing ragged denim cut-offs, unbuttoned and unzipped as if he'd put them on and forgotten to finish the process.

‘Our pierced princess is named Liz,' the undressed blonde said. ‘Short for lizard. I'm B.J. Short for . . . well, maybe you'll find out. That's Pippa on the floor and Keith, a.k.a Beaver, as in “Leave it to . . .” They're in luuuv. And don't care who's watching.'

The tattooed Beaver glanced at Mace and lifted his chin an inch. Pippa was too entranced by the movie on the wall to pause for even that minimal a welcome. Her vapid face showed a brief annoyance as Liz stepped over her legs, blocked the projected image for a beat and plopped down beside Beaver.

Liz's bathrobe opened exposing a plump, naked body that was about as appealing to Mace as an open wound. Not that she cared. Staring at the wall movie, she casually began to caress the boy's bare chest. She seemed to be stroking the Venus tattoo.

‘Where's Symon?' Mace asked the blonde.

‘He doesn't live here, honey,' she said. ‘Just uses this place for . . . business transactions.'

‘Where can I find him?'

‘Not here. Not now.'

‘Where does he live?'

‘Like I'd know?' B.J. said. ‘He pays me to do things. I'm not his wrap. He's too old and too ugly.'

She moved closer, pressing against him. ‘Relax, honey. Lose some of that tension.'

She lowered a graceful hand.

He grabbed her wrist before it reached his groin. ‘What the hell is this?' he said.

‘Let go,' B.J. whined, dropping the seduction act. ‘You're hurting me.'

Mace released her wrist. She swung at him with her other hand, but he stepped away from it.

The swing carried her against the open door and she made a yelp and sent a few curses into the air. Then she settled down a little and began to rub her wrist. ‘Jesus, you almost broke it,' she said. ‘What the fuck, asshole?'

He hadn't meant to be that rough, but she'd surprised him. He wasn't about to apologize.

‘Out of the way, Jack,' Beaver yelled.

Mace realized he was blocking the projected images. He stepped out of the bright light and, for the first time, noticed the images on the wall. A hardcore threesome; two guys and a gal.

What the hell was he doing there?

He headed for the door, but B.J. blocked his way. ‘I . . . look, I'm sorry. I was just fucking with you. Your name's Mason, right?'

He glared at her.

‘Gotta be. Simon said you looked like the guy plays the lead on
Mad Men
. Hang on a sec'. He left something for you.'

B.J. crossed the room and disappeared down a hall.

The three people on the floor were now fondling each other, seemingly enraptured by the erotic images on the wall.

B.J. crossed through the stream of light carrying a Manila envelope. She handed it to Mace.

He took it and started to go.

‘Hold on,' B.J. said, all business now. ‘Fifty bucks.'

Mace fumbled out his wallet, peeled off two twenties and a ten and made his exit.

‘If you do get lonely, you know where to find me,' B.J. said, before she closed the door.

He was halfway to the Florian before he realized the blonde had used his name. He hadn't mentioned it to Symon.

EIGHTEEN

M
ace was surprised that Paulie had actually done something right; the leased Camry was parked where it belonged in the Florian lot. He drove past it and put Wylie's vehicle into its allocated space.

With a white bag in hand and the envelope with Angela Lowell's photos under his arm, he walked to her yellow Mustang. Its hood was cool to the touch. The tracking device was still attached to the rear of the license plate. He next went to the Camry, got in and pressed the button. It started right up.

Everything was as it should be. Would wonders never cease?

He got out of the car with bag and envelope and locked the Camry, then headed to the stairwell and up to the apartment.

The room was in darkness. In the moonglow, he saw Wylie, slumped over the table near the window. Asleep. He smelled of booze.

Across the way, a light was on in Angela Lowell's bedroom.

Mace switched on their ceiling light. He stood near the table watching Wylie wake up by degrees. First came the frown. Then a clearing of the throat. Squinting, followed by a full scowl.

Wylie sat up, yawned and said, finally, ‘Shit. I was asleep.'

You live asleep
, Mace thought but refrained from saying it. Instead, he put the bag on the table in front of Wylie. ‘Dinner,' he said.

Wylie removed the bag's contents, three quarter-pounder cheeseburgers and a waxed cardboard drink container. He pointed at the drink. ‘I hope that's a Coke. I fuckin' hate Pepsi.'

‘Milkshake.'

‘No shit? For me? That's fuckin' def, Mace. I love 'shakes.'

Mace sat across from him. He slid the photos out of the envelope and spread them on the table. He reached over them, grabbed one of the three burgers, unwrapped it and begin eating it while studying the eight-by-ten glossies of Angela Lowell getting into her car and driving away from the Florian lot.

‘Where'd you get those?' Wylie asked.

‘Guy with a camera.'

‘Duh. I didn't think they came with the burgers. What guy?'

‘You been asleep long?' Mace asked.

Wylie had been sucking the viscous drink through a straw. The question threw him and he swallowed too fast. He squinted his eyes and groaned. ‘Brain freeze,' he said, pushing the heel of his hand against his forehead. ‘Man, that was intense. How long was I . . . ? Half-hour, tops. Look, I been sittin' in this fuckin' room all fuckin'—'