Survival of the Fittest (51 page)

“So what does it mean?” I said.

No answer. He’d turned grave, almost sad.

Daniel, Milo   .   .   . the limits of friendship   .   .   . just another delusion   .   .   .

“Potassium chloride?” I tried for the third time. “Freelance executioner. At least the state offers sedation.”

Tenney said, “The state offers a last meal and prayers and a blindfold because the state’s game is insincerity—pretending to be humane.”

He laughed very loudly. “The state actually takes the time to sterilize the
injection
site with alcohol. Protecting against
what
? The state is an
ass.
”

“Don’t worry,” said Baker. “Your heart will explode, it won’t take long.”

“Dust to dust, carbon to carbon.”

“Clever. Too bad we never got a chance to spend more quality time together.”

“Executed,” I said, barely able to restrain the scream that kept growing within me. “What’s my crime?”

“Oh, Alex,” he said. “I’m so disappointed in you. You still don’t understand.”

“Understand what?”

A sad shake of his head. “There are no crimes, only errors.”

“Then why’d you become a cop?”

The needle lowered a bit. “Because police work offers so much opportunity.”

“For power.”

“No, power’s for politicians. What law enforcement offers is choice. Possibilities. Order and disorder, crime and punishment. Playing the rules like a card hustler.”

“When to fold, when to draw,” I said. Stall, stretch every second, don’t look at the needle. Robin— “Who to arrest, who to let go.”

“Exactly,” he said. “Fun.”

“Who gets to live,” I said, “who doesn’t. How many others have you killed?”

“I stopped counting long ago. Because it doesn’t matter. That’s the point, Alex: Everything is
matter
and nothing
matters.
”

“Then why bother to kill me?”

“Because I want to.”

“Because you can.”

He came closer. “Not a
single
one of them was missed   .   .   . no impact, nothing changed. It made me realize what I should have known years before: Sensation is all. One passes the time in the least onerous way possible. I like to clean house.”

“A sweeper,” I said, and when he didn’t answer: “The elite takes out the trash.”

“There are no elites. Just those with fewer impediments. Willy and I will end up worm-food like everyone else.”

“Smarter worms, though,” said Tenney. He grinned at me. “See you for chess in hell. You supply the board.”

“Sensation is all,” I said to Baker.

Baker put down the needle again, unbuttoned his shirt, and spread the placket.

His chest was tan, hairless, a grotesque plane of ravaged flesh.

Scores of scars, some threadlike, others raised and welted.

He displayed himself proudly, rebuttoned. “I thought of myself as a blank canvas, decided to draw. Please don’t talk to me about mercy.”

“At least tell me about DVLL.”

“Oh, that,” he said, dismissively. “Just a quotation from Herr Shickelgruber. Pure mediocrity, that one, those sickening watercolors, but he did have a way with a phrase.”

“Mein Kampf?”
I said.

He got very close. Sweet breath, soap-and-water skin. How did he tolerate Tenney?

“ “Die vernichtung lebensunwerten Leben,’ ”
he said. “ “Lives not worth living.’ Which applies, I’m afraid, to yours.”

Tenney moved in and held my right hand down, elbow to the mattress. Oh, Milo, the bastard is right, nothing matters in the end, nothing’s fair—fingertips drummed the crook of my arm, raising a vein.

Baker lifted the syringe.

“Happy heart attack,” he said.

Robin—Mom—go out with style, don’t scream, don’t scream—I prepared for the jab, nervous system crashing, alarm bells jingling—

Nothing.

Baker straightened. Perturbed.

Still the jingling.

The doorbell.

“Shit,” said Tenney.

“Go see who it is, Willy, and be careful.”

Clang. The needle disappeared and in its place Baker held a machine pistol—black, banana-shaped handle, rectangular body, nasty little barrel.

He looked around the room.

The bell rang again. Stopped. Three knocks. More bell.

I heard Tenney’s rapid climb up the stairs.

Voices.

Tenney’s, the other high-pitched.

A woman?

Her voice, Tenney’s, hers.

“No,” I heard Tenney say, “you’ve got the wrong—”

Baker moved toward the door, pistol held high.

The woman’s voice again, irate.

“I’m telling you,” said Tenney, “that this—”

Then, a low, muffled stutter that could only be one thing. More footsteps, racing, as Baker pointed the machine pistol at the door, ready.

Thunder behind him—breaking glass, a glass roar—from behind the curtains, then a flute arpeggio of tinkling shards as the curtains parted and men burst in shooting.

More stutter, much louder.

Baker never had a chance to see them. His pink shirtback sucked up crimson and the rear of his head dissolved in a red-brown mist.

The front of his head followed, facial features blanketed in red oil and white jelly, the substructure disintegrating, features losing integrity, turning to port wine. Melting. A wax figure melting.

His chest exploded and soft things flew out, plunking wetly against the wall.

One of the shooters ran to me. Young, sharp-featured, black hair. One of the guards I’d seen at the consulate. Behind him, a big, heavy, white-haired black man in navy blue sweats. Older, at least sixty. He glanced at Baker’s body, then at me.

The young, hawk-faced man began undoing my restraints, only to be yanked away.

By Milo, disheveled, wet-eyed, sweating, breathing hard.

“Sir,” said the young man, Milo’s big hand still on his arm.

“Get lost! Do your job and I’ll do mine.”

The young man hesitated for a second, then left. Milo freed me. “Oh, Alex, such a fuckup, such a goddamn idiotic
fuckup,
I’m so—oh, man, we almost lost you—it really went bad—never again, never fucking again!”

“You always were one for drama,” I said.

“Shut up,” he said. “Just shut up and rest—man, I am so sorry, I will never let you talk me—”

“Shut up yourself.”

He lifted me.

He carried me past Baker, lying in a broth of gore, crossed the white room, now candy-striped, bits of brain and bone a free-form collage. Out to the stairs. Tenney’s corpse was sprawled on top.

“Up we go.” His breathing was too hard, too fast. I felt strong enough to walk and told him so.

“No way.”

“I’m okay, put me down.”

“All right, but we’ve got to get the hell out of here. Be careful not to trip over that piece of shit.”

A woman came into view at the top of the stairs. Very short, heavyset. Rosy cheeks, bulbous nose.

Irina Budzhyshyn, proprietress of the Hermes Language School. Small pistol in her hand, nothing fancy.

In her Russian accent, she said, “No one else in the house. Get him out of here and then we bring in the cleanup crew.”

A man appeared behind her, in black. Late twenties but already bald on top with a brown mustache and goatee.

He was breathing hard, too. Everyone was.

“I’ve got transport,” he said in a thick voice. Not acknowledging me, though we’d met.

The landlord at Irina’s building—what name had he used? Laurel. Phil Laurel.
As in Hardy.

Everyone’s a comedian.

Chapter

60

We got into Rick’s Porsche.

Milo said, “You all right?”

“I’m fine.” I was coated with icy sweat and fought not to shake.

He made a too-fast U-turn and raced down the hill.

“Oh, man,” he said. “What a—”

“Forget it.”

“Sure, forget it. Biggest fuckup of my life—forget it is exactly what I won’t do—how the hell could I have been so goddamn stupid—!”

“What happened?”

“I got ambushed is what happened. Sudden meeting with a deputy chief. Sharavi was pulled off, too, by his own people. Til I found out, I thought
he
set it up—did you see an older black guy in there?”

“Captain Brooker?” I said. “The one who got hold of Raymond’s file and shoes?”

“Sharavi managed to call him from the john in the consulate.   .   .   . The guy ended up being righteous.”

“Think Sharavi’s bosses will punish him?”

He reached Apollo, turned sharply, sped. “Bosses don’t like being bucked.   .   .   . I’m taking you to my place, Brooker’s gonna meet us there and we’ll all get cleaned up.”

“How’d you get free?”

“Faked a heart attack, scared the hell out of the department lackey they sent to drive me. He zoomed to Cedars, ran for help, I split, got to the E.R. the back way, found Rick, borrowed the Porsche.”

He was still breathing hard and his color was bad.

“Laurence Olivier,” I said.

“Yeah, maybe I’ll switch jobs, become a waiter.”

“Meantime, calm down. We don’t want a real heart—”

“Don’t worry, I won’t drop dead on you, too pissed off to die—Jesus, Alex, this was the worst thing that’s ever—the department pulled me off but
I
screwed up by not anticipating it. Big-time. Should have known Carmeli would be listening in to every word. Knew from the start the guy was no social director—what’d he call himself—an arranger. He arranges all right.”

He cursed.

“You predicted it,” I said. “The Israelis would take care of business themselves.”

“So I’m a goddamn prophet. But a stupid one. I kept seeing Sharavi as the hit man, got thrown off. Truth is, he was just like me, fucking bait.   .   .   . The whole thing went to shit—I
am
leaving the fucking
job.
Switch to something quiet—I’ll use my goddamn master’s, teach English somewhere—elementary school, not in L.A., where ten-year-olds shoot you, some backwater, kids who still say aw, shucks and—”

“What exactly happened?” I said.

“What happened?
Shit
happened is what happened. Brooker and I were up there playing
I Spy
when they grabbed us. Two guys and that little Russian girl and they managed to get us cuffed before we knew what hit us. Finally, we convinced them we weren’t the enemy and they freed us, demanded we leave, it was their operation. Brooker and I refused because we didn’t trust them to protect you, said we’d spoil whatever plans they had if they didn’t share the wealth. Bluffing, because I knew that if the debate stretched out I’d have to split. Because I wanted to make sure
someone
was watching you—didn’t want you in there without surveillance.”

He blinked hard—wet eyes? Rubbing them hard, he coughed.

“They agreed to let us in on it but
they
had to call the shots.
She
did—Irina, Svetlana, whatever. She agreed to let us be part of the rear attack if we didn’t “cause problems.’ The arrangement was Brooker and me and one of them—the black-haired guy—in back of the house and her and the other guy—the fucking landlord—at the front door. The guy with us had a mike, parabolic, like Sharavi’s, but it wasn’t working well and by the time he got it going, Baker was ready to   .   .   . I’m sorry, Alex, when I heard you say potassium chloride I nearly—I told the guy we’re going in right now, bucko, he tells me he needs a signal from her, I say fuck you, and he uses his beeper to signal
her
and she says she’s already at the front door, just hold on one second, but I’m already up, running for the glass door anyway and the black-haired one is holding
on
to me, I’m fighting with him, come this close to shooting
him.
Finally Svetlana and Landlord pull the front-door thing, do Tenney, we can hear them shooting him and we do the rear attack on Baker—I’m sure all of us perforated him—what a
mess,
Alex.”

He gripped the wheel and turned to me.

“Not that
they’re
unhappy. What went down is exactly what they planned. There were never gonna be any arrests.”

Chapter

61

Other than a false story about Wilson Tenney, none of it ever hit the news.

Wes Baker’s heart-attack obit was printed only in the police protective association newsletter.

Baker had been right about one thing: So few things had impact.

I never saw Daniel again.

“Carmeli’s gone, too,” Milo told me. His fifth visit to my house in one week. He was drinking more. I kept trying to look my best, assure him I was fine.

“The whole family, him, the wife and son. Ditto, Baker’s boat. I went down to the marina, harbormaster said Baker had sold the boat to “some guy with an accent’ who’d decided to dock at Newport.”

All of Andrew Desmond’s identity papers had disappeared from my pockets. I’d given the clothes to Goodwill.

“How’re you and the department getting along?” I said.

“They still claim they love me.”

He sat at my kitchen table and ate a corned beef sandwich, noisily. Wonderfully, reliably gluttonous.

Some things
do
matter.

“What do you think happened to Daniel?” I said.

“I’d like to think they didn’t hold it against him, but   .   .   . tried to contact Brooker, he’s split for parts unknown.   .   .   . Daniel was a good soldier, Alex. Up until the last moment, he did exactly what they wanted.”

“Defining the target.”

“He was their hound, just like me. Spotting—pointing. They used us both to pinpoint the prey, then brought in the attack dogs for the kill.”

“Revenge,” I said. “Carmeli heard everything. Including why Baker had chosen Irit. Now he knows it wasn’t just random madness. Wonder how it affected him.”

“Who knows   .   .   . bet you he never told the wife.”

I smiled.

“What’s funny?”

“Your big performance: Mr. Chest Pain, rogue cop on the lam.”