The Bone Triangle (6 page)

Every bad neighborhood has individuals that make it bad. It’s not the streets themselves that are to blame for poor reputations. It’s the people who roam them—that’s what the populace is really afraid of.

The airport district had always had trouble with gangs. When I first spotted a group up ahead, milling on the street with lazy, insolent steps, I knew what I was facing. But I kept walking toward them. Turning around now would be a mistake. Like dogs, they could smell fear.

As I walked closer and closer, I felt my heart accelerate in my chest. It wasn’t pounding yet, but it was getting there. They weren’t shouting any early challenges, which gave me false hope.

I had a few moments to reflect upon the nature of gangs as I drew closer to them and they quieted, taking my measure. In America, groups of young toughs had a long and storied history. From West Manhattan to East Los Angeles,
urban youth often felt the siren’s call to gather like small baboon troops and harass people on city streets. I supposed it was rather like organized hazing or bullying in schools. I recalled a quote from Davy Crockett concerning the Irish gangs of centuries past: “These men are worse than savages. They are too mean to swab Hell’s kitchen.” That name had stuck, christening the infamous Hell’s Kitchen neighborhood of New York City.

When I was close enough to count them, I came up with seven sets of hunched shoulders. Were they armed? It was hard to tell. The odds were pretty good that they were. I decided not to reach for my gun as there was no sense in escalating things early. My chief worry was the five thousand dollars in the envelope under my shirt. I couldn’t afford to lose that.

The streets were dark now, and passing cars were rare. Overhead, the streetlights hummed and moths tapped at the orange bulbs.

I drew closer, reaching that zone of space in which people feel the urge to acknowledge one another. They had been talking in murmured conversations with occasional loud bursts of laughter. Now they fell silent. I felt their stares, and I returned them evenly.

“Hey, cop,” one of them called out to me when I reached a range of perhaps thirty feet.

I glanced at him in mild surprise. “I’m not a cop,” I said, almost laughing.

“Bullshit,” said another, stepping out onto the sidewalk. He was blocking my path now. I’d have to step into the street to keep going. “We saw you get out of the cruiser. We saw you talking to them forever.”

I walked closer, trying not to slow down. I felt a surge of anger. Sure, I technically owned a mansion, but no one
wanted to buy mansions these days. I would probably have to let it go to the bank for taxes soon. After you subtracted what I owed, I probably had less wealth in the world than these punks, and I wasn’t in any mood to share whatever was left.

“Look kids,” I said, “the cops hate me more than they do any of you. Trust me. Now, get out of the way.”

The first one laughed. “He must think they can get back here quick enough. I doubt it, undercover man. I really do.”

I decided to bluff and gamble. Call it a personality flaw. “Don’t you guys want to know why your friends are turning into little piles of bones?” I asked them.

That changed their attitudes—unfortunately, it didn’t bring out the best in them. Cursing, three of them stepped close. They said very bad things about my mother, my sister, and my personal sexual history.

“Give us what you got, and you can go,” the leader said from about three feet away. His hands were curled into fists at his side. He was the biggest of them, and the others called him “Cartoon.” His dark brown arms were wrapped by tattoos of green eagles and his eyes were like two drops of black oil.

I shook my head. “Don’t have much, and I’m not handing over what I have.”

Cartoon grinned, clearly happy to hear my decision. He waved forward two of his friends.

The first man drew back a fist. I stepped close, grabbed his wrist and elbow, and pulled him forward until he was off-balance. These boys were game, but they weren’t trained fighters. I sent him over my hip onto his face.

No one had a weapon in hand, so I didn’t draw mine. If I pulled a gun now, they would do the same and things could escalate. I’d been in a lot of fights; most of them I
couldn’t even remember. I figured these guys might even learn to respect me before this was over.

The second one took his shot. He kicked at my knees. I kicked back, and something popped. He went down cursing.

The third guy was Cartoon himself. He was the scary one. He had a look of confidence the others didn’t possess. He also was ruder than the rest, moving in on me before it was really his turn. I hadn’t recovered from my kick when I saw his fist coming at me out of the dark. I twisted my head but took it on the point of my chin. My jaw popped painfully, and I staggered back. He came in behind that first roundhouse swing, firing powerful blows toward my midsection.

I managed to save the situation by grabbing his wrist, stepping behind his left ankle with my left foot, and pushing at his shoulder. It was an easy throw, and he went down in a spiral around me. Unfortunately, he caught hold of my shirt with both his hands, and I stumbled and went to my knees.

The first guy was back up by now and kicked me. Besides hurting like a bastard, his action finally dislodged my prized possession. The brown envelope fell out onto the concrete and spilled open. Hundred dollar bills fluttered over the sidewalk.

The gang whooped and surged forward, grabbing for the cash like a pack of kids when the piñata finally bursts open. A sane man in my situation would have climbed to his feet and run off. Unfortunately, I was pissed off and desperate.

“Give that back, or I’ll turn you all to piles of slimed bones!” I shouted.

Of all the things I could have said under the circumstances, this was possibly the only thing that had the power to gain their attention.

“You’re a cop!” shouted Cartoon. “The cops don’t know about the Beast! They don’t know where the bones come from—or where they go.”

“Let’s take the cash and run,” said a shapely young woman with incredibly long fingernails, tugging at his sleeve.

Cartoon shook his head. He straightened and shoved the small handful of money he’d managed to gather into my face. “I can take your money later, cop. Right now, I want to see you bleed.”

I took the money and stuffed it away. “You and me, then,” I said, agreeing to his terms.

The rest of them squinted at us like we were crazy. I could read the look: my money had upped the ante. Originally, they’d been bullying a man on the street. They’d had nothing to lose. But now they had real cash in their hands and they wanted to keep it. They wanted to escape in case I really was a cop and had called for support somehow.

They abandoned Cartoon after a few shouted attempts to persuade him it was time to flee. I thought about running after a few and beating the money out of them, but I knew I couldn’t do it with the big man chasing me.

Cartoon put up his fists and set his feet. He knew how to stand, and I could tell his punches were going to hurt. He was the only one among them who knew how to fight.

“Let’s make this a
man’s
fight,” he said. “I paid for it. No kicking. No girl-stuff. Just fists and balls.”

I thought I knew what he meant, so I nodded. We began trading blows. I tried jabs first and so did he. I ducked a few heavy fists and began to worry. He was younger, stronger, and almost as fast. The only thing I had on him was experience and whatever training I’d received in my hazy past. I still couldn’t remember much about my life before the last six months.

I took a few shots to the chest and one to the right ear that left my head singing. In return, I closed one of his eyes for him. We were both breathing hard as we took a break and circled.

“You really aren’t a cop, are you?” he asked. “No cop would fight fair like this. He’d call in a hundred friends. Cops are just the biggest gang, you know that?”

I smiled, showing him a few blood-lined teeth. “I told you they hate me.”

I realized I had gained his respect. But I hadn’t taken the fight out of him. This young man liked a good fight, and he meant to have one. He meant to beat me down until my face was on the pavement or his was. I figured he might win. Regretfully, I decided to even the odds.

We came together again, both swinging hard. I stepped close and ducked low. I used the power of one of the artifacts I wore—just a small thing. The wedding ring Jenna had given me long ago was still around my little finger, turned around so the diamond didn’t show. It was an object and it had a neat power: it gave someone a small amount of localized luck. It didn’t have much range, but its reach was great enough to help out in a fistfight. I urged Cartoon’s foot to slip. At the same time, I grabbed his other leg behind the knee and heaved. He went over on his back. On the way down, he landed badly, smacking his head on the curb.

I stood over him, ready to rain down blows, but I hesitated. He glared up at me, rubbing the back of his head.

“You cheated somehow,” he complained. His expression was honestly reproachful. “There’s no way I should be down like this.”

“Sorry,” I said. “Did you call fighting three on one a fair fight?”

“Crazy
pendejo
,” he mumbled, massaging his skull.

I walked away, snatching up a few stray hundreds as I went.

“Hey,” he called after me.

I glanced back, but kept walking.

“Watch out for the light. A circle of orangey light. The Beast will come when you are all alone somewhere in the Triangle.”

“The Triangle?”

“Yeah, that’s what I said.”

“What’s the Triangle?”

Cartoon climbed to his feet and chuckled. “It’s a place,
pendejo
. You’re standing in the middle of it.”

I left then, hurrying up the street before his friends could come back for what remained of my cash.

I’d learned over time that in modern Las Vegas certain areas were ruled by members of the self-styled Community. These people considered themselves lords, and in a way they were correct to do so. Normal people could not hope to face them. Each of these lords held one or more artifacts of power, including one that was exceptionally potent. The truly powerful artifacts operated only in small regions rather than working everywhere. As a rogue, I was someone in possession of a collection of minor objects that were mobile. I could take them with me and use them wherever I wanted.

Looking at this arrangement of power carefully, I preferred my lot in it. Sure, there were others who could do things far beyond my meager means. But I was glad to trade power for mobility. If nothing else, I was sure I would become immensely bored stuck in one place. Some of the Community members seemed half-mad to me. I suspected
it was due to a sort of cabin fever. If they dared step out of the narrow zone where they held sway, they would be helpless in the face of the others. Their artifact could be taken from them, because it wouldn’t work. On the other hand, if they left it at home, who would guard it? Who could they trust? Any henchman would be sorely tempted to take the power for himself, instantly setting himself up as the new local lord.

No, that lifestyle wasn’t for me. I was a wandering rogue, and, although life was hard, I preferred it this way. I considered myself fortunate to have gotten away from the gang, losing only dollars. They might have taken my sunglasses if they’d realized what the artifact could do. They might have taken
everything
and found several other objects they could use.

Walking with a slight limp, I was only two blocks from the Strip now. I could see the bright lights up ahead. Unlike the airport district, the city cared about the Strip, as that was where the tourists came to spend their dollars. Areas like the Triangle could rot, but order was maintained out on the Strip. Understanding that with clarity I’d not possessed previously, I was anxious to return to the bright lights and clean streets.

I have to admit, after losing most of my five thousand my head was full of dark thoughts. I considered using my sunglasses for theft. The power to open locks at will made stealing laughably easy. I’d thought of doing so before but had always refused. Somehow losing the cash seemed so unfair that I found myself wanting to fix it. To gain instant justice. To take back some of what I’d lost. The idea was seductive.

Schemes percolated in my head. I wouldn’t rob the casinos, of course. That seemed like the obvious move, but the trouble was every casino in town had about a million
cameras watching everyone. They all knew who I was and what I looked like. I could probably take the cash, but I’d be arrested soon after.

As fast as my head generated objections, darker parts of my mind answered them. I didn’t have to go for the gold. I could enter a closed bank or a vacant hotel room. In my mind’s eye, I saw myself rifling through people’s belongings in the dark.

I shook my head. I had to resist these ideas. That wasn’t who I was—a thief in the night.

I was only a block from the Strip now. I already felt better. The lights were glaring, colorful, and bright. I saw people walking up and down the street, cheerful and noisy. It was like coming upon a festival in the middle of the wilderness.