Crush (22 page)

Eleven months later, Rush walked across his apartment to Zerbe's computer console, eating a bowl of Sugar Smacks, his usual late-evening snack. There was an email from Donleavy saying that Trask had been sentenced to twenty years for his brother Walter's murder. Rush sighed. Justice.

Gail and Zerbe were nearby, shooting pool. Rush figured he'd wait for them to finish the game before he told them. Gail still limped a little, but other than that, her recovery was amazing. She'd beat Rush in a sparring match last week, and he hadn't even let her win. Gail was a real superhero, he decided. So was Zerbe, for that matter. He deserved to wear his Green Lantern shirt. They should start a Justice League for broken-down heroes.

Rush looked back at the computer. He clicked on the picture menu and brought up the photo of Amelia in the club, the one she'd taken of herself the night they met.

Call him crazy, but even after all she'd done, Rush still liked her. Hell, he liked Trask, too. Trask may have been a slimy crook and a killer, but when it came to it, he took a murder rap for his daughter because he loved her. And Amelia killed her uncle because she loved Guzman. Everything they did, they did for love.

Rush moved the mouse, rolling the cursor over the picture, wondering if maybe that was why he kept looking at her. Because he couldn't imagine loving someone that much. He guessed that ought to make
him feel superior to them. Smarter. But he hardly ever felt smart anymore.

He rolled the cursor to the task bar.

Well, there's one thing computers have over the human brain
, Rush thought as he dragged the picture to the trash and hit “delete.”
Wouldn't it be nice if we could do that
.

Get ready for more Crush action!

A preview of the next book by Phoef Sutton

HEART ATTACK & VINE

A Crush Novel

April 2013

I
hate L.A.,” Layla said as she traced a thin black line with her paintbrush onto the cool, white tile that lined the face of the Feingold's Deli stall in the bustling Grand Central Market. “What I love is Los Angeles.”

She pronounced it with a hard “g,” the way people did in the 1930s. “Los Ang-a-lees.” With her short-cropped hair, bleached a platinum blond, and her white blouse, Layla looked like she could have been an extra in an old gangster movie herself. Only the Bluetooth headset clipped to her ear spoiled the illusion.

“I hate the new Hollywood Boulevard. It's almost as bad as Times Square in New York. And I hate what they're doing to Los Feliz and West Hollywood and all the faux-hip shops in Silver Lake,” she said as she painted graffiti on the front of Feingold's. “What I love is Downtown Los Angeles, in all its messy glory.”

Caleb Rush was sitting at a table in front of the Sticky Rice stall, munching on a mess of smelly fried smelt with dipping sauce, Bluetooth nestled in his ear, chatting with Layla over the airwaves, watching her from the corner of his eye so as not to make it too apparent that they were talking to each other. Layla was paying good coin for Rush to keep an eye on her, and that's what Rush was doing.

“God, I hate hipsters,” Layla said with a sigh. “They're ruining this town.”

Rush grunted an agreement while he half-watched her trace retro-style sketches of deli sandwiches on Feingold's façade—graffiti art, only made to order.

Layla Lowenstein was in her early thirties. With her black eyeliner, blue nail polish, and the tattoo of Felix the Cat that peeked from the sleeve of her vintage blouse, she was a poster child for the hipster generation. No one hates hipsters more than hipsters, Rush thought.

Layla was a part-time artist, part-time actress, and part-time grifter. There was nothing full-time about her.

“We're the last of a dying breed, Crush,” she said, using the nickname by which he was best known.

“What breed is that?” he asked.

“Hired guns.”

“I don't use a gun.”

“Neither do I,” Layla said. “I meant it metaphorically. My guns are my brushes. My guns are my way with words. Oh, and my dark, mysterious eyes. Those are my guns, too.”

“Okay,” Rush said, just to pass the time. “What are my guns?”

“Your guns are you, Crush. You're your own guns.”

Rush dipped some more fish into the spicy sauce and took in his surroundings. Grand Central Market was the innards of Los Angeles. The stomach and lower intestines of the town. A city block sandwiched between the faded glory of the Million Dollar Theatre and Mexican shops that sell votive candles and statues of saints. Recently renovated, the market had, housed under one roof, dozens of stalls featuring everything anyone would want to eat, drink, or ingest. There were delis frequented by thirty-year-old Jews in fedoras and taco stands where Mexican immigrants actually ate. There were stalls that sold traditional Chinese medicine, kept in dusty vials that looked like they had been there since the turn of the last century. There were trendy hot spots for trendy hipsters, like kombucha bars and artisanal chocolate shops.

On one side was Broadway, not the bustling Broadway of New York but the run-down, seedy Broadway of L.A. On the other side, the market opened onto Bunker Hill and the funicular railway called Angel's Flight, whose slanted cars took the trip up the steep route to California Plaza and the swooping walls of Disney Hall—that is, when they weren't closed for safety reasons, which they usually were.

“Mark my words, Crush,” Layla said. “In three years all the old, dirty, sleazy storefronts in this place
are going to be gone, and there'll be nothing but latte shops, organic cheeses, and pressed-juice stands. It's the way of the world.”

Someone walking through the crowded aisles between the stalls caught Rush's eye and made the hair on his arms stand up. It wasn't that the man was particularly threatening. He was tall and slender, with neatly groomed hair, a gray sportcoat, and an attaché case, like a time traveler from the sixties. The way he looked around with hooded eyes, as if he was a predator seeking prey, sent a warning signal to Rush.

“Principal is approaching,” Rush said into his headset with practiced calmness.

Layla got excited. “Groovy,” she said, putting her brush in a jar of water on the counter and waiting for the man to come up to her. “Meet you back at my apartment.” She pulled the Bluetooth from her ear.

Rush reached in the pocket of his black hoodie and checked the envelope Layla had given him. He didn't know what was in it. He wasn't being paid to know; he was just being paid to make the transfer. Getting up and throwing the leavings of the fried fish away, he walked over to the deli stand and made as if he was looking at the little blackboard with the daily specials, pointedly ignoring Layla, who stood next to him, washing out her brushes and singing “California Dreaming” softly to herself.

Sportcoat sidled up to Layla and backed her into the counter in a way that was both casual and threatening.
“Hello, Bridget.”

So Layla was “Bridget” to Sportcoat. Interesting. She was Layla Lowenstein, but he'd always doubted that was her real name. A girl like Layla made up a new identity to fit every occasion.

“Do you have it?” Sportcoat said, letting his briefcase thud like a pendulum against the deli counter.

Rush came up to Sportcoat and tapped him on the shoulder. Not in a particularly aggressive way. Caleb Rush was six-foot-five, two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle in a tight black T-shirt and hoodie. His clean-shaven head had a nasty scar running from above his left eye across his skull. He didn't have to act aggressively. His physical presence was threat enough.

“You're not dealing with her,” Rush said. “You're dealing with me. I have what you want.”

Sportcoat looked at Rush and tried very hard not to look intimidated. “That wasn't part of the deal,” he said, reaching into his jacket pocket and putting his hand on an object that Rush thought might be a gun.

“It's part of the deal now,” Rush said in an even tone. “Come on.” If Sportcoat had a gun, that meant he was expecting trouble, but he'd have been expecting trouble from Layla, not from a mean piece of a work like Rush.

As he often did, Rush wondered what the hell he had gotten himself into. He was a part-timer himself, and one of his trades was doing odd jobs for friends. Layla was one of those friends. She'd asked him to
handle the transfer of an unnamed object to an unnamed buyer. Layla was infamous for her transactions, usually of stolen or illegally obtained merchandise. Rush had no moral objections to Layla's deals, legitimate or otherwise. She was a friend, and her money was good. End of story.

But the first thing he had to do was get Sportcoat away from Layla and out of this crowd of people. If Sportcoat was going to use his gun, Rush wanted him alone, with no bystanders, innocent or otherwise. He turned and walked through the crowd, not looking back to see if Sportcoat was following. Rush was willing him away.

Walking to a little side exit tucked between a cheese store and a coffee shop, Rush pushed through a door and into a small hallway lit by a flickering fluorescent fixture. The hallway felt small and dingy after the roomy cacophony of the market. He heard footsteps clicking behind him. A man's steps. Crossing to another door, Rush swung it open and entered a dark corridor. Its walls were covered with red floral wallpaper, faded and peeling, a relic of a gaudier, flashier past. They had entered the neighboring building, the illustrious Million Dollar Theatre.

Built in 1918 by Sid Grauman and designed by Albert Martin, it was L.A.'s first grand movie palace. A mad mix of Spanish Colonial and Churrigueresque fantasy, it had stood for nearly a hundred years, doing service as a movie theater, a jazz club, a Mexican
vaudeville house, and a Spanish-language church. Now it stood empty, waiting for a savior or a wrecking ball.

Walking through the dark wings of the theater, Rush headed onto the stage in front of the tattered movie screen. His way was lit by a ghost light—a single bulb in a small wire cage set on a pole in the middle of the stage. Ghost lights were a theatrical tradition, an offering to the twin show-business deities of superstition and safety.

The theater was inky dark and silent, a cathedral to the business of motion-picture exhibition. The vast expanse of seats lay before Rush like an unexplored cavern, and the proscenium rose high above him. Longhorn skulls and Aztec gods stared down from the ornate arch. Rush walked several steps past the ghost light and turned around.

Sportcoat was standing about ten feet away from him. The ghost light stood between them like an umpire at a prizefight. “Are we there yet?” Sportcoat asked.

“Yes,” Rush said. “Do you have the money?”

“Not so fast. Let's get acquainted first. What do they call you?”

“Busy,” Rush said. “Let's get this done.”

“Okay, Busy,” Sportcoat said. “Mr. Cleveland just calls me ‘Bub.'”

Mr. Cleveland? He said the name as if Rush should be familiar with it. He didn't know Rush was just a hired intermediary, and Rush wasn't about to clue him in.

“All right, Bub.” Unzipping his hoodie, Rush pulled
out the package. It was a plain manila envelope, flat and unimpressive. “Do you have the money or not?”

“I have it.” Bub set the briefcase down on the wooden stage. “Shall we count to three and push?”

“Do we really have to?”

“Mr. Cleveland is fond of ceremony.”

“All right,” Rush said, crouching down and placing the envelope on the stage. “One, two, three.”

Rush slid the envelope across to Bub, and Bub slid the briefcase to Rush. Rush opened it and saw that it was filled with bundles of twenty-dollar bills. A lot of bundles. There must have been a hundred thousand dollars in there. Layla was only paying Rush five hundred to make this exchange. His roommate was right—he really had to start being a better businessman.

He looked up to see Bub examining the contents of the envelope Rush had given him. “Doesn't seem worth it,” he said. “But like Grandma used to say, it takes all kinds of crazy people to make a crazy world.”

“Your grandma was a smart woman,” Rush said.

“You wouldn't say that if you met my grandpa.”

Rush shut the briefcase and stood up. The transaction was complete. No gunplay had been necessary. Rush considered that a success.

“Now,” Rush said, “I leave first. You follow.”

“Whatever you say.”

It didn't really make any difference who led and who followed, but Rush knew that it did matter that he stayed in charge. He walked, covering the distance
between them in firm, steady strides. A thought occurred to him when he was opposite the ghost light. He stopped, set the briefcase down on the stage, and opened it.

The bundles of cash looked impressive. He picked one up and flipped through it, like a magician rifling through a deck of cards. The top two bills were real American money. The rest of the bundle was made of real Monopoly money.

He glanced up at Bub. And at the gun in his hand.

“You had to look, didn't you?” Bub asked.