The Pressure of Darkness (4 page)

"The same."

"Who's he got with him?"

"That Arena League football player guy, Kelvin Somebody."

Burke shook his head. "Great. That big bastard is like a Coke machine with a head on it."

"Tell me about it. Take a gun this time."

"Maybe I will. One large?"

Tony rolls his eyes. "You're killing me here! A fucking
thousand?
"

"I come back with twelve grand, it's worth it."

"Okay, okay."

Burke patted Tony on the shoulder. He moved down the hallway and back out into the lot. With some action on the horizon, his pulse began to race. His nostrils flared and his eyesight sharpened. The night seemed more alive than just moments ago. He checked everywhere, carefully opened his trunk. It had a false bottom; half of a fake spare tire and some plush carpeting covered a recessed area packed with weapons. There were short bats, handcuffs, a sawed-off pump shotgun, varied handguns, extra 9mm clips and speed loaders. After a moment of reflection he selected a .38 Special and tucked it into the back of his belt. The gun had no serial number and the handle was wrapped in black electrical tape.

TWO

Tarzana, improbably named after Tarzan of the Apes, squatted a few miles west, yet another straight shot down the Ventura Freeway. The Horny Rhino was a so-called 'gentlemen's club' where drug-addicted young women could make enormous amounts of cash for shaking booty and offering the occasional hand job, even on a Sunday night. It had valet parking, so Burke circled around the block. He slid to the curb in a residential area and walked briskly to a cement wall at the end of the street. Burke paused, listening to the echo of pounding rap music, but heard no voices. He pulled himself up and over and dropped into the alley behind the club, eased along the brick wall and ducked down behind some overflowing trash cans. The stench of rotting food was damp, foul, smothering.

"The fuck we waiting for?"

A dark, low voice came from right around the corner, at the mouth of the next alley. Burke felt his heart speed-bump his ribcage. He swallowed dryly and edged back a few inches, squeezing into a pile of plastic garbage sacks. He debated pulling the gun but didn't want to risk movement.

"We just guard the back." A different voice with a high nasal twang, read like someone from the Deep South.

"Shit, I'm bored," Mr. Low Voice said. "Let's smoke a J, then."

"No way, man," Twang replied. "You go on inside and do that, you want to. If Willie catches me stoned again it's my ass."

"Suit yourself."

Suddenly the music got louder then softer again as the door closed. Twang sighed and stepped out into view in the alley. He was a male model type—long brown hair in a ponytail, black designer shirt tight against the sculpted pectorals, expensive cowboy boots. Twang strutted over to the wall, leaned on it. Burke heard the tinny rasp of a zipper and the warm hiss of urine striking the ground. The splatter was just loud enough to cover light footsteps. When Twang turned he was clobbered with a knuckled blow to the throat. His system went into shock. He couldn't breathe. He grunted in panic as Burke artfully steadied him then delivered a second blow to the diaphragm. Twang dropped to his knees, puked and passed out.

Inside the club, the music was deafening. No one saw Burke enter because all eyes were fixed on an Oriental girl. She was writhing about the lacquered black stage while using her vagina to smoke a cigar. The guards outside were likely on the lookout for squad cars or maybe some undercover vice cops out to bust what was obviously a private party.

Burke mussed up his hair, went to the bar and stood next to a red-nosed businessman who was hooting and hollering encouragement. He reached past the overflowing ash tray, stole the man's half-empty glass, slipped into the crowd of drunks. Burke plastered on a harmless, cartoon grin and started looking for Dinky Martin. The air was thick as dirty cotton and made his eyes water. Fortunately, the search didn't take long.

An enormous black man anchored the far table near the men's room. His massive, tattooed arms were crossed over a barrel chest. The scowling colossus was Kelvin, the Arena Bowl player. Burke thought
: He may as well be wearing a sign GUARDING A CHICKENSHIT.
Dinky Martin was wearing a Hawaiian shirt, torpid belly ballooning out over pale blue slacks. He lay sprawled in the booth, a g-stringed beauty under his arm, watching the stage. There were two empty pitchers of beer on the table, along with a bowl of peanuts and some over-priced, watery champagne for the call girl. Burke figured anyone ingesting that much beer would need to pee every twenty minutes. He stumbled along the wall with his face averted and stepped into the foul crapper.

A transvestite in a pink dress was standing at the urinal. The pretty guy shook it, tucked it back into red panties, and lowered his frilly skirt. He turned to the mirror, patted his brunette wig and winked.

"Nature called."

Burke moved aside, face empty. The cheerful cross-dresser left. Burke checked and found all three stalls empty. He stepped into the last and stood on the toilet. He could just see the front door. He locked the stall and leaned back against the wall with his eyes closed, focused on a rippling mountain stream and the sound of cool breeze whispering through pines.

The music was pounding relentlessly enough to vibrate the plaster, so waiting was torture. A couple of tattooed kids festooned with body piercing crashed into the room. They were dressed in baggy fatigues and jean jackets with peace symbols. They peed, finished a foul-smelling roach, and left. Burke remained quiet. After another false alarm—two businessmen from the bar—Dinky entered to use the urinal. Burke heard him tell Kelvin to wait outside.

As Dinky Martin grunted out the last few drops, something cold touched the back of his neck. He whined porcine high and shrill and began to tremble. Dinky reeked of cheap cologne and cigar smoke. Burke whispered in his ear. "Twelve large, Dinky. You know who, you know why."

"I don't have it," Dinky wheezed. "I mean I
do
, but not here for Chrissakes."

Burke grabbed Martin by the back of his greasy hair and slammed that bulbous nose into the tiled wall. Dinky squealed pathetically and Burke almost lost his resolve.

"My nose!"

"I broke it," Burke said, softly. He pushed the head forward into the tile again, but somewhat gently. He rubbed the mess around, so a pinkish smear would be there for Dinky to see. "You know what? You may like it better this way."

"Don't hurt me anymore."

"The money?"

"Okay, okay!"

BOOM
the door exploded inward. Burke released Dinky, who dropped down and retched into the urinal. The bodyguard Kelvin drove Burke into the paneled wall of the first stall and Burke heard a sharp
crack
and wondered if it was wood or his ribs. He couldn't reach the .38 in his waistband, so he went for Kelvin's balls, but the bastard was wearing a cup goddamn it, and his fingers slipped off and up the tailored trousers. Kelvin hit him hard once, twice on the top of the head with a ham-sized clenched fist.

"Kill the fucker!" Dinky screamed. He sounded sincere.

"You got it, boss," Kelvin replied. His fist slammed down again and Burke felt his knees weaken. He deliberately let himself sag. He opened his hands and slid them, palms out, up the man's shirt, as if seeking purchase. Kelvin tried to hold him up to hit him again. Burke grabbed his collar and yanked down as he stood up tall. He drove his skull up and into the bigger man's jaw with a sickening crunch. Kelvin swayed, eyes rolling up like windows in a slot machine. Burke whacked the hinge of his jaw and Kelvin dropped like a sack full of barley. Burke stumbled to the bathroom door and locked it. When he turned around, he was feeling greatly annoyed.

Dinky was shaking his head, flattened nose spraying crimson droplets. His eyes were bulging. He went digging into pockets and underwear and socks, pulled out rolls of bills and flung them down onto the piss and blood-stained bathroom floor. "Take it! Take it all!"

Burke felt his head and his fingers came away bloody. He was not overly concerned, since even minor scalp wounds bled profusely. He opened his mouth and checked for a loose tooth.

"There!" Dinky shrieked. "That's all I've got."

Sobbing, Dinky backed away through clumps of paper towels. Burke knelt in the piss and blood to gather a few rolls of hundred dollar bills, distaste for the entire enterprise written on his weathered face. Someone pounded on the bathroom door. Burke moved faster. He carefully counted out exactly twelve thousand dollars and put it in his pocket.

"I said take it all, just leave me alone!"

"You can keep what you don't owe," Burke said, calmly. "Just don't be stupid next time."

A thunderous crash distracted him. Men were throwing themselves against the restroom door. Burke moved to the back stall, stepped up onto the toilet seat and grabbed the concrete ledge. He levered the large window open, kicked out the lower pane of glass and slithered through. He dropped down onto a pile of garbage sacks, rolled through some mud, and jogged down the alley.

"Hey, that's him!"

Twang, back on his feet and filled with righteous indignation, was standing by the back exit, talking to a Hispanic guy in boxer shorts and a XXX tee shirt. Burke measured the two of them as they started toward him, clearly set on rearranging his features.

"This is not my night." Burke reached behind his back, down to his belt. He sighed wearily and flashed the snub-nosed .38.

Both men froze and then began to back away, palms up. "It's all good, my man," the Hispanic said with a wide, forced smile. "Shit, I don't know you, never saw you."

"Easy, dude," Twang added. "No problem here."

Burke tucked the gun away, made the wall on the second try and dropped back onto the residential street. He resisted the urge to run. He strolled to his car, got in, and drove away into the night.

THREE

MONDAY

She smiles down at him, her beautiful face framed by raven hair and lightly rimmed from behind by a glowing arc of candlelight. Her flesh is warm and soft to the touch. Burke is at peace and content. He wants to say that, wants her to know, but he cannot speak . . . her fingers uncurl, lengthen and splay, then gently stroke his thigh. Burke feels himself thicken. He tries to kiss her, but she shakes her head and pushes him back down. She is focused and intent on pleasing him. In a voice that sighs and rolls like ocean waves she whispers: "Just let go. Let go." But her features somehow writhe and change into something else, a creature that is distorted, dark and strange to him . . . "Let go . . . let go . . ."

Jack Burke cried out. His eyes jerked open. His heart thudded a low timpani roll. He felt small, weak, and terrified. He looked around his sparsely furnished bedroom, eyes seeking purchase.

Outside, the morning was still. Sparrows were pecking at stray seeds on the windowsill.

The clock radio clicked on, played a splashing wave followed by some "cool L.A. jazz." Burke calmed himself and sat up with a low grunt. The firm mattress barely moved. He shook the dream away, tried to deaden his frayed emotions. He noted a small, sharp pain deep in his chest. He rubbed aching flesh and checked his ribs but found no serious damage. He popped his back. Burke rolled out of bed naked, right down onto the hardwood floor. He did a long, slow series of yoga stretches, followed by a hundred push-ups, a hundred sit-ups, and several sets of hammer curls with thirty-pound weights.

As Burke grunted and sweated through his workout, the innocuous music was briefly interrupted by a newscast. A bored baritone recounted the current status of the 405 and 101 Freeways. The President was denying something to do with his checkered business history. Then: "In a dark coda to an even darker life, best-selling, multi-millionaire horror author Peter Stryker, a controversial public figure, has been found dead, an apparent suicide via what is described as 'self-mutilation.' The coroner has scheduled an autopsy."

Burke thought:
Self-mutilation? That's one way to make a statement
.

Burke slipped into worn Las Vegas PD running shorts and some mud-blackened tennis shoes without socks. He got a bottle of water from the fridge and jogged out the back door, around the side of the small house and down the sidewalk, heading north. He soon felt loose enough, and after a few moments began to run. He made three green lights effortlessly and turned east on Sherman Way. At the next block he caught a red light and had to run briskly in place, pumping his arms.

Some bleary-eyed, hung-over, sorry-assed teenagers coming home from an all-night party pulled into the intersection and eyeballed him. Burke imagined what they saw: a tall, aging athlete; good buns with most of a six-pack and a full head of reddish hair, jumping up and down in his underwear at six-thirty in the morning, pouring cold water over himself. Burke stared them down. When the light went green again they roared away farting a trail of brownish smog, the driver peeling rubber in a lame show of macho. Amused, Burke finished the five miles and returned home. He stripped and swam several laps in a small, worn pool that was in need of new tiles. He dried himself, went back inside. After a moment, he turned the radio off. He needed silence.

Burke made breakfast: strong black coffee, dark wheat toast, no butter, and a three egg-white spinach and mushroom omelet with hot sauce. He washed the dishes, pan and plates, the moment he was finished with them. The routine was the same every morning, structure his only comfort. When the food was finished and the dishes clean, Burke diligently searched the house and emptied the trash buckets into a black garbage sack. He tossed it into the can by the side door. He had already done the laundry for the week, so he vacuumed again.
Do something, anything. Keep moving.

Burke glanced out the window and watched his neighbors hustle their children off to school. Wives kissed husbands goodbye. People waved and honked and drove away. It seemed like everyone else had somewhere to go, and someone to come back to. Burke's face tightened. He sat alone at the kitchen table, brooding.