End Time (16 page)

Cheryl didn't answer immediately. Then, savvy: “C'mon, they have Asian hooker rings up and down the coast, you know that. Acupuncture salons, nail salons.”

“But they're not high-class, are they? Boat people. Working off their passage.”

When Cheryl just looked at him he tried another approach. “Thousand-dollar hos, for the Burbank crowd, sure. There's one or two madams. And they run it clean—you know, pay off everyone in sight. Maybe your gal fell in there? Maybe you've put the touch on them yourself from time to time. They have a big payroll, lots of coppers on it.”

Cheryl took the photo back. “We're looking for a weirdo. Some kind of horror show impresario. You know what I'm saying?”

Dead silence again. Nicky the Banka-Gangsta took off his reading glasses and put them in a silver clamshell case and back in his jacket. He reached to the armrest minibar along the side of the limo. Poured himself a slug from crystal. Then stared at it. Swirled it around, then stared at it some more.

Then at last: “I don't know his real name. I don't think he's got one. But they call him the Magician. Things get around. They say he's running some kind of chop-shop, snuff market; they call it the Harrow House. I mean, it may not even be a real place, a real house. You pay and you play. Single-payer system, right? We're not talking some kind of Mistress Spanky and the Gang where the Hollywoods come down from Malibu for the night to get their fannies red, and a home movie thrown in for free. This is
not
for the fainthearted. We're talking the real deal. Blood and pus and dead before dawn.”

Bhakti's face had taken on a beige tinge. What it looked like when an Indian's blood drained from his cheeks. He was going white.

“How do we find him?”

“You don't, sister. He finds you.” Bossman the Banka-Gangsta took a hit from the glass. “I mean he's like Santa Claus. He's got a list, checking it once and checking it twice. He knows who's been naughty and who's been nice.”

“You're whack,” Cheryl said with some heat. “What is he—Peter Pan? Flying in on his tights and flying out again like Mary Martin?”

Bossman took another hit of the whiskey. “You know what I know.”

Cheryl took the little glass vial of Dalekto out of her shirt pocket. “Tell me about this stuff.”

The Banka-Gangsta looked curiously at it. Got out his glasses again. Took it in his handkerchief so none of his prints got on the little glass vial. “Where the hell'd you get this?”

“Your boy had it in his pockets.”

“You're kidding me.” The gangster was incredulous.

Cheryl and Bhakti shared a fleeting glance. The big Bossman didn't know?
Really?
The gangster tried to explain, “Look, I'm in the blow, crank, and X business. I never seen this before. But if that kid is playing me, I'm gonna cut his big lips from his upper and lower mouth with a razor. Then he can talk to his mama that way and suck cock in Chino.”

“You mean you don't know,” Cheryl said.

“That's what I mean.” He tossed the vial back at her. “I never seen it before.” A quiet kind of queer fear seemed to creep into the man's face. The unknown in his world was the mind-destroyer. The Future Killer. What you didn't know could kill you. Snarky and Putz could see it clear enough from their couches across the long back of the limo.

“Well, thanks for taking the time with us, Squire,” Cheryl told him. “We're going to want another word with your boy before you do anything rash. Remember that. You want your money?”

The gangster was breathing with his mouth open. He poured another slug from the armrest and brought it to his mouth. It slipped a little and splashed his Sea Island cotton shirt. “Damn.” He mopped himself with a handkerchief. “My money,” he said vaguely.

“Yeah, we'll go to an ATM, or a couple of them. Right here in the mall.”

“The mall…” He seemed slightly doubtful. The money. The mall. Then he made up his mind, reached a decision, knew his place in the scheme of things. “No. We're not going into the mall. I'll give you a day to talk to the boy before I talk to him. I'll give you his address. Just leave him alive. About that money, now…” A long breath. The breath over.

“I don't want the Magician to know I even know about him. You can keep the green.”

*   *   *

Los Angeles at night is part black sky over the glow of sodium lights and bright neon storefronts; then the softer yellowish lights in neighborhood windows, the flickering blue of televisions. They found the handyman's place easy enough from the address Bossman provided and found the kid at home in one of a thousand faceless 'hoods in LA: the ranch house, the chain-link fences, the gated doors and windows, the little square lawns that never got enough water, beer cans and KFC boxes spilling over trash cans. But Bhakti couldn't find many indicators showing they had entered rough territory. Bad areas in this part of the world didn't have the thick grime and grit of the rustbelt cities, the forbidding public housing, grim fortresses as though designed by jailers. But even the open canopy of sky overhead didn't make Bhakti breathe any easier.

As their black SUV pulled up to the curb, a few kids down the block talkin' smack gave the two strangers the eye for a moment—but went back to themselves after they spotted Cheryl's blues under the sodium lights. Only gunshots and bubble-lights were worth a look. Hell, she coulda lived nearby.

The chain-link four-foot fence gate was open. So was the metal iron-twirled gate at the door, open a crack, the front door itself ajar. Cheryl and Bhakti went in cautiously. Most of the lights were on, but the place was quiet except for the soft babble of a television. Tan-painted walls, the smudge of fingers along the doorjambs. The discount store furniture was clean, but with that beaten look that cheap pieces seem to accumulate so fast. The dining set especially; the table peeling laminate. A glance in the kitchen showed more of the same: cupboards missing knobs and warped doors that didn't close all the way.

In the main room three figures sat on the couch watching TV. Cheryl heard the sounds of an
American Idol
rerun; Paula Abdul was at the judges' table doing her sincere coquette thing. The singer, a tall contestant dressed in tuxedo pants sans jacket slithered about the mike stand in his gleaming white shirt and sparkling studs, crooning a rendition of Lou Reed's “Sweet Jane,” lewdly stroking the microphone head as if that young Jane were his favorite knob-polisher.

The three figures on the couch just sat and watched and listened. Not moving.

“Hello?” Cheryl called out. “Can we come in? The door was open.”

Her hand strayed to her sidearm, and she motioned to Bhakti to keep behind her. A large mirror hung over the TV console, showing everyone on the couch. A mother and her two sons. One was the handyman from the corner earlier in the day. He now wore cargo shorts and a Lakers T-shirt—lounge-around-the-house wear. The other, a younger brother, dressed in a matching outfit.

Over on her side of the couch Mama stared at the TV with open eyes; a large and round woman, maybe forty-five. She had “single mother” written all over her—the kind who held down two-and-a-half jobs so her kids could get some of the things they deserved, even if their dad only showed up twice a year for birthdays.

She was definitely off work now; pink spandex enclosing her bottom, a flowing Hawaiian shirt over her ponderous bosom, three buttons unbuttoned. No bra and no air-conditioning. Maybe somebody turned it off. The unit in the wall was throwing wind but no cool. Thin yellow strips fluttering.

But that wasn't the ugly part.

The three figures weren't breathing, just stone-still staring at the tube. Each one's lips had been cut, top and bottom, exactly like Bossman had described not half an hour before. The three sets of white teeth grinned into the mirror over the TV. Could Bossman have gotten here this quickly, in and out before Cheryl and Bhakti arrived? No way. Or could he have done the deed himself earlier? Doubtful. Why promise them a day to question the boy? Why even bother giving the kid's correct address? No point at all. Bhakti and Cheryl shared a long look. Bhakti could see the pause and suspicion in his partner's face.

Weirder still, a line of red ants snaked up from the floorboards, a marching column from the floor to the armrest of the couch, across Mama's arms and onward. The busy marching column curled over her forehead, down between her bosoms, out the tail of her loose shirt, and over to the younger child. Across the younger child, onto the kid from the street, disappearing down into the crack of the seat cushions again. Cheryl stared in silence
.

For his part, Bhakti thought of the children's song:
the ants go marching two by two, hurrah, hurrah
. Bits of this had come to him from Lauren and Guy, a rambling snippet that pushed Eleanor toward the psych ward.

“You have to call this in,” Bhakti said huskily. “Somebody's got to be notified.”

Cheryl's face took on a veiled cast. “Did you touch anything?”

“You're not going to leave them here?” Bhakti came back, aghast.

“No? You think not? You want to spend the next two weeks in interrogation with your court-appointed lawyer? Or do you want to keep on looking for Lila Chen? Make up your mind and make it up right now. Whatever we decide this very second will determine whether we find her or not.”

Bhakti looked down at himself. Had he touched anything? No, just some footprints on the wall-to-wall. And that was strange too; the carpet had been recently vacuumed. The only footprints on the wall-to-wall were their half-dozen steps walking in from the door. He took a deep, ragged breath. Committed.

“All right then,” Cheryl told him. “Back out the way we came. Careful not to touch anything.”

They left Mama's place the way they'd found it. Back by the curb, Cheryl considered for a moment what to do about Bhakti's black rental SUV. The kids were gone from the sidewalk two houses down. Still, somebody might have snagged a plate number.

“Get in and drive toward Long Beach.”

They found an alley in Compton, off Long Beach Boulevard and not too far from the Alameda rail corridor that fed the docks.

“Leave the windows open and the keys in the ignition.”

“Just
leave
it here?”

Cheryl didn't know exactly how to explain the Greater Los Angeles area to a newbie tourist from Nowhere, Texas. Compton had its problems: highest murder rate in the USA, longtime home of the Bloods and Crips. The Compton PD had even been disbanded once when the line between law enforcement and gangs blurred to irrelevance. Now that it was the LA County Sheriff's Department jurisdiction, some people said Compton was coming back. Still, not nearly fast enough for Cheryl's taste.

“Look, with any luck half an hour from now this vehicle will be washed, waxed, vacuumed, a cute New Car Scent freshener pad dangling from the rearview mirror—and on its way to South America. You'll report it stolen later. When you give them this general address in Compton, they'll think you're just an idiot from out of town.”

Bhakti saw the logic to it. He was from out of town. They got out of the car and began to walk away. “Wait!” Bhakti doubled back to retrieve Janet's ashes. “What if the local cops find it first?”

Cheryl laughed. “Then chances are
they'll
boost it down south. If it finds its way back to Dollar Car Rental, it'll get washed and waxed anyway. Let's find a cab. We'll throw out our shoes later. I want to make a call.”

Which she did from inside a Yellow Cab as it idled by a shoe store; Bhakti had vanished inside the Payless. She hung up on her call when he emerged, only to send him back for another try at a new pair of shoes. “Pick another style, Bhakti.” When he looked at her crazy. “Different treads.”

Later he asked her, “What about your boots?”

At length she sighed, answering him, “If I get tagged with any of this—DNA epithelials, hair, fingerprints, boot prints, handprints, nose prints—the only thing I can say is that when I arrived nobody was there, or they were alive and I left empty-handed. Maybe leave you out of it. You get to visit me in lockup on weekends.” She paused at his look of alarm. “All that's in that house was shoe prints on the wall-to-wall, yours and women's size 8. Tactical ATAC boots—they made about a zillion of those last year. I was just taking precautions with you.”

*   *   *

“You want
what
??”

Herman the Police Union lawyer sat in the Holiday Inn motel room. When Cheryl asked him to meet them there, he had no idea she was cohabitating. Or collaborating, or whatever the hell she was doing. Besides leaving the Highway Patrol and getting a divorce.

And Joe College moved in.

Bhakti's navy blue Brooks Brothers sports jacket hung neatly in the open closet and beside it two pairs of pressed khakis on another couple of wooden hangers. Three Lacoste polo shirts—one in lime, another in salmon, and the third in lavender—lay on the dresser; next to them sat a cardboard box of men's button-down shirts from a local cleaner marked
HEAVY STARCH
. Bottom of the closet showed a pair of Payless rubber loafers and a pair of expensive leather ones, cordovan leather with tassels.

But Herman absorbed the scene without much fuss; he'd seen much worse in his day, and accepted the Punjabi scientist's presence as you would a potted plant. Still, what his Rainbow Rambo was asking him fell between lunatic and criminal:

“I want to see the full intel file from the Felix Graffiti Task Force, or whatever they call it.”

“Cheryl, are you crazy? You have four hours left on your two-week notice. Whattaya think? They got some kind of war room? Maybe it's in four different offices on three different floors, in file cabinets and under trash cans. Maybe the FBI has requested the whole lot and it isn't even there. Some of it may even be in the property clerk's office.”