One More Body Read online

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTERS

  1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

  6. 7. 8. 9. 10.

  11. 12. 13. 14. 15.

  16. 17. 18. 19. 20.

  21. 22. 23. 24. 25.

  26. 27. 28. 29. 30.

  31. 32. 33. 34. 35.

  36. 37. 38. 39. 40.

  OTHER WORKS

  ONE MORE BODY

  A Moses McGuire Novel

  JOSH STALLINGS

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  ONE MORE BODY

  Copyright © 2013 Josh Stallings

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

  Published in the United States by Heist Publishing

  ISBN: 978-0-9910544-2-8

  www.joshstallings.net

  DEDICATION

  For Jared James Stallings, my son and one of the bravest men I know.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A huge thank you goes to my editor, the ever amazing Elizabeth A. White, her thoughts and comments were always insightful and drove me to write a better book. To Erika, my harshest critic and strongest supporter. To my earlier readers, Holly West, Thomas Pluck, Neliza Drew, Aldo Calcagno and Fingers Murphy, for stumbling along with me in the early drafts and always adding to the later ones. To my siblings Larkin Stallings, Lisa Stallings and Shaun Anzaldua for their kind words and undying support. To Sabrina E. Ogden, McDroll and all my other online friends who keep cheering Moses on, my deepest appreciation.

  CHAPTER 1

  Ensenada, Mexico—November 10th.

  Sitting on the beach with a dead woman might drive some men mad. I found it reassuring.

  Mo, this can’t last. Your life? It is fucked up even by your nonexistent standards.

  Mikayla sat in the sand between my legs, back against my beer gut. Sweat ran down her shirt, the wet fabric clinging to the scar from her self-amputated breast. She’d done it to keep the ex-KGB from kidnapping her and selling her into prostitution. She was an assassin. A dead one. Her personal body count topped twenty or so pimps. She lost count in a whorehouse she torched in Tel Aviv.

  “Sitting on a beach with a ghost is fucked up?” I asked her. “Men paying to rape a kid? Much more fucked up. Men getting rich selling boys and girls? Much more fucked up. Eating Vicodin and chasing it with therapeutic levels of cold Mexican beer to stop the spike nailed into my temple? That shit is minor on the scale of fucked up.”

  Is it working? Drugs? Whiskey?

  “Keeps the barrel out of my mouth.”

  Thing is, Mo, ultimately it won’t, can’t. Only death brings peace.

  “I’m done, out, no more. You, the sun, Angel. This is my life.”

  Oh, Mo, no. This is R & R. Her callused hand rested on my knee, her razor out of sight for the moment. She’d been at war as long as I’d known her. We’d gone into a house full of trafficked girls, left their captors bloody smears.

  I have to go, Mo.

  “Another fifteen minutes, give me that.”

  Fifteen.

  I could feel every vertebra as she pressed against me, her muscles taut. She was never fully relaxed, even in sleep.

  “Given enough time, could you . . . me?”

  Old man, you are crazy. She blessed me with one of her rare smiles. It showed her gray, steel teeth. Mo, if I ever chose a man, you would top the list. This was the most I had ever heard her speak, her voice rasping from disuse.

  “Maybe we could have made it, you and me.”

  No. You are a Viking. When you go it will be alone and soaked in your enemies’ gore.

  “I don’t want to, not anymore. You know what I did to that girl.”

  Never forget her. Never. Rapist. Victim. Collaborator. Hero. There is no middle ground for us, Moses, none. Rapist. Victim. Collaborator. Hero. You and me, we have no choice.

  Although she didn’t move, I could feel her body lighten.

  “No, you said fifteen minutes.”

  It has been that and more, I’m tired. Her body was no more pressure than a silk scarf. And then she was gone. I looked out over the Pacific, Angel, my bullmastiff bitch, at my feet. I felt hollow with Mikayla gone. Eating painkillers like Chiclets could only quiet the dragon, but never slay it. Mikayla, I didn’t have to explain. She knew already. If talking to a dead assassin brought me peace, so fucking be it.

  I lay back, letting the hot sand warm my back, work its magic on my tore up muscles.

  “DO AS I say, or spend the rest of your life back in the pen.” The stranger let her hand rest on the butt of her Glock. She was short and lean, maybe 5'5", built like an athletic boy. Flat chest and ass. No meat on the bone. Her face was moon shaped and the only soft part about her. She had full lips, no lipstick. Her hair was in a tight, short afro. She vibed cop.

  “Better keep the pistol hidden.” I took a Pacífico from the galvanized bucket full of ice at my feet. They were six-ounce cuartitos, so you were never drinking warm beer. Perfect. I cracked a Vicodin between my molars. If she minded, she didn’t say so. She didn’t move. Hand on Glock. Ready.

  “A narco bandit makes you for a cop, your head will wind up on a pike. They actually do that shit down here. Medieval country.” I could see myself reflected back in her Ray-Bans. She was wearing slacks, shirt and blazer. It was 80 degrees in the shade of the palapa. I offered her a beer. She shook her head. I tilted the bottle up. It was cold and fresh and I finished it in one steady gulp. I dropped the bottle and grabbed a new soldier. She was playing stare down, real he who talks first loses bullshit. So I made an obvious show of checking her out.

  “Enjoying the view?” Cold.

  “Not my type. I like my women with a few more curves and a lot less pistol.”

  “Strippers, right?” She was right. I had been with my share of strippers. Women: they twisted me every way possible. Some used me. Some cared for me. Some died. Some were broken just for being near to me. Now the only woman I was interested in was dead.

  “Did you come down here to ask if I might be willing to toss you a tumble?” I asked. Her jaw started to grind. “I’m kinda in a celibate monkish phase. Sure you don’t want a beer?” I rolled the bottle over my forehead, let the ice water cool my face. I looked out over the Pacific. Never get tired of the view. Angel lay in the sand at my feet chewing on a pork bone. On the table was an old ghetto blaster. I turned The Pogues up. Nothing like Rum, Sodomy & the Lash to lift my mood. “And the Band Played Waltzing Matilda” was playing.

  “Can you turn that down?”

  “No, this is the good part.” I sung along: “Those who were living did their best to survive in that mad world of death, blood and fire.”

  The music died. She held the plug. “Not a fan of The Pogues? Lady, do you have any saving graces?”

  “Mr. McGuire, I didn’t drive all the way down here to be ignored, eye fucked, watch you drink beer and listen to crap Irish music. Do I get the cuffs out, or do we talk?”

  “Crap? The Pogues?” I stepped into her face. Ok, my chest into her face. At six foot four I towered over her. I invaded her space. “Don’t like The Pogues? Get the fuck off my beach.”

  “That’s not how this works.” She gripped her piece.

  Angel looked up at her. Feeling the threat, she let out a low growl, like one of the hounds of hell had been pissed off. “Lady, you have extradition papers?” She hard eyed, but didn’t answer. “Didn’t think so. Park the attitude before my dog does something wrongheaded, and you get a permanent limp.”

  “That bitch moves and I will put her down.” She eased her hand into the trigger guard. Angel tensed her haunch muscles, ready to spr
ing.

  “Angel’s fast. Money’s on her.”

  “Lowrie said you’d be a dick.”

  “He send you down here?” Detective Lowrie, LAPD. I wouldn’t call him my friend, but he was an honest, no bullshit cop. Rare in LA.

  “Yes. He said if I needed to find someone lost in the sex trade you were the man to see.”

  “I don’t do that anymore.”

  “He said you’d say that, too.”

  I didn’t tell her that the last time I went blazing Mikayla had died at the hands of Xlmen, a Mexican hunter. Gregor, a soldier who trusted me, lost an arm and almost bled out in a San Burdo whorehouse. We painted the walls with Russian pimps. We saved the girls. Some made it out, some were hooking again before we left town. On me. All that was on me. I led them into it. I didn’t tell the lady cop about the teenaged girl I raped. I didn’t tell her of the dreams that never left me. Instead, I sat down and offered her another beer. “Come on, I’ll rustle us up some fish tacos. Enjoy what’s left of the day before you head back to Los Angeles.”

  “You want the hard way? Fine.” She moved behind me, dropping a hand on my shoulder like I was a recalcitrant schoolboy. “You’re a felon reported to have been using a firearm. Oh yeah, I read about you in the LA Times. Big hero. Strike three, you are out.” I heard a soft whistle, felt air move toward my head. Something heavy hit the base of my skull and I went limp. And then I fell into a deep pool of black.

  I HURT.

  I hurt fucking bad.

  Bile backed up into my mouth.

  My head was pounding out a slow painful cadence.

  Wake up, Mo. Sleep when you’re dead.

  I heard Mikayla’s voice, but her body was gone. When I opened my eyes, I saw that someone had turned the ocean on its side. The surf sparkled silver in the moonlight. I looked around as far as I could without moving my head. A Glock lay in the sand, a pair of Ray-Bans not far from it. My beach chair was lying by me, bucket of beer toppled, ice a drying puddle in the sand. Somewhere off in another land I heard Angel growling, something in her mouth muffling the sound. It took all my strength to sit up. Fireworks exploded behind my eyes.

  “Help, please.” Her voice was a soft whisper. I turned my head, searching for her in the dark. I saw eyes first, her dark skin fading into the shadows. I struggled to make sense of the scene. Reaching up, I found the cord and pulled. Light flickered on. She was on the ground against the back wall of my beach shack, Angel attached to her right arm. Rivers of drool spilled down. Angel kept her eyes pinned on her prey.

  “Best advice, don’t move if you want to keep that arm.”

  “Do I look like I’m moving?” she whispered. I plucked the Glock off the sand and held it casually aimed at her. I searched around and found what I was looking for, a small leather bag filled with lead shot.

  “A blackjack? Really? How old are you?”

  “Thirty-eight.”

  “Blackjack is some old school bullshit. Where’d you find one?”

  “It was my father’s.” She looked down at her arm vised in Angel’s mouth, then back at me.

  “Angel.” I snapped once and Angel released her grip and came to my side. The stranger was tough, I’d give her that. She stood up, stretched out her shoulders and cracked her neck, but didn’t bitch.

  “You going to shoot a cop? How stupid are you?”

  “Pretty stupid. Ask anyone.” My head was still pounding. “This ain’t LA. I toss your body in the sea and the local policía will give it a couple of hours then move on to something that pays better.”

  “I don’t beg.” She was cool. She closed her eyes. Ready.

  “And I don’t kill people. I’m done.” I popped the shells from the gun’s mag one after another into the sand. I cleared the chamber and handed her the empty Glock. I kept the blackjack, figured I had earned it.

  She slipped the automatic back into its holster. “I have more ammunition in the car.”

  “I’m sure you do.” I uprighted my chair and set two beers on the small table. She sat down, looking at me. I patted the pockets of my Hawaiian shirt, didn’t find what I was looking for. Scanned the sand where I had fallen, found it. I picked up the pill bottle with my Vicodin. I crunched a painkiller and chased it down with a deep swallow of beer.

  I don’t know how long Angel had her pinned, but it must have been hours. She was rubbing her forearm. I held up the Vicodin. She shook her head. I put a bottle of mescal on the table. She didn’t refuse that.

  “She’s thirteen.” She was looking out to sea.

  “Ok, who the fuck are you?”

  “Detective Rollens, LAPD.” She dropped her badge on the table. It looked real enough. “My niece. Thirteen. Vanished. Left home, never made it to school. Gone.”

  “I’m sorry. But—”

  “I know. You don’t do this anymore.”

  “Can’t.”

  “A guy from vice thinks he saw her on the stroll. Saw the BOLO too late, hasn’t seen her on the street since.”

  “He have any idea who she was working for?”

  “Ten different pimps work the stroll.”

  “Ask all ten.”

  “Think I didn’t?”

  “You do it in an interrogation room?”

  “Of course.”

  “Didn’t ask hard enough. Not by an LA mile. Motherfuckers lawyered out before you finished the papers, right?”

  Rollens slid a picture across the table to me. It was a young girl in a cheerleader uniform. She had cornrows with little bows at the tips. I poured myself a healthy shot.

  “She’s a heartbreaker.” I forced myself to really look at the snapshot. Take it in. “You want me to come up and go after these pimps hard? That’s the reason you’re here.”

  “I want you to help me find her.”

  “It is never that easy.” I held the picture of the baby in a cheerleader uniform and took a long pull off the mescal.

  WHEN I FIRST moved to Ensenada I went to an AA meeting. I was willing to try anything to remove the spike from my head. “Whatever you have done, son,” said the sixty-year-old, sunbaked dude wearing a Margaretville t-shirt and a peaceful smile, “anything, you write it out. Then you tell God and another human. Then, if you want peace, you become willing to make amends for all you have done.” And that is where he lost me. What exactly was the amends for all the killing? What was the amends for raping a teenager? The wreckage of lives I had shattered? He said I shouldn’t worry, he had heard it all. I’m sure he was wrong. Besides, no one needed to carry my water for me. I had developed a program of my own, a careful balance of booze and painkillers. Get it right, this mixture will keep the ghosts at bay. Get it wrong, you tip the scale into oblivion. Stay away from stimulants. Try not to think about shit. Talk to dead friends. On really rough days, I toss a line out past the breakers. Fish while Angel chases the gulls.

  It wasn’t a bad life. I owned a house and a shack on the beach. I’d made a truce with the local Don, Señor Sanchez; I agreed not to kill his man Xlmen, he agreed to leave me and my friend, Adolfo, in peace. Adolfo’s wife was learning not to fear me. Their kids would come down and play with Angel. I didn’t have much. I didn’t need much. I stayed away from women. It was simpler that way. The last woman I had been with had been a teenager, a child really. A sick fucker had dosed me with Viagra and stuck a gun to my head. “She wants you to have her precious cherry, to save her whore sister. How fucking sweet, no?” He would have killed the girl, slow and ugly.

  So I raped her.

  Maybe I chose right. Maybe I didn’t.

  Either way, I had no need to revisit those feelings.

  After almost a year I finally stopped waking in a panic, sweat slick sheets wrapped around me. It wasn’t peaceful, but it was as close as I deserved.

  I SET THE photo of Rollens’s niece on the table. I took the mescal and walked away, down toward the surf. She followed me with her eyes. I was sitting in the sand, my head on Angel, necking the bottle when I heard
her car roll away. I crunched a Vicodin between my teeth. Fuck it. I popped a second, chasing them down with mescal. I was going to need all the help I could get to keep the dream away tonight.

  There is a moment, one perfect moment, when the world goes cotton ball soft and there is a layer of gauze between me and all that went before. Somewhere off in the fog I had done some fucked up shit. But here it was all warm and well.

  I was at peace.

  CHAPTER 2

  Compton, California—October 31st.

  Freedom was walking to school, running late, again. Third time since entering the eighth grade in September. It wasn’t her fault there was a line to get in the bathroom this morning. They didn’t understand she needed to keep her grades up. She had plans.

  She had just crossed West Rosecrans Boulevard when the fresh looking car pulled up beside her. She could see herself in the smoked windows. Something was wrong, alarm bells clanged in her head. She wanted to run, but it was like in a dream and she was stuck in slow motion.

  The back door opened behind her.

  “Andre, grab the bitch.”

  She turned to run.

  Arms caught her shoulder and spun her around. A man with dreads and a scruffy beard held her. She noticed he had dark stains in the pits of his Rocawear.

  He wrapped his arms around her and dragged her toward the back door. She snapped out of her dream. She screamed. She kicked. It made no difference. In seconds she was tossed into the back seat and the waiting arms of a thin, ashy man. He put a hand over her mouth and whispered, “You bite me and I will break your ugly neck.” He made a crunching sound like chicken bones being broken.

  And they were gone. Speeding away from the curb. Moving into traffic.

  When they passed her middle school, she could see all the kids lined up, most in costumes. Her so-called mother said Jesus Christ didn’t like Halloween; it was a devil’s holiday. Her friend Julia was bringing her a sexy nurse costume Julia’d worn last year. Freedom couldn’t hear the playground over the thumping bass of J Cole’s “Can’t Get Enough.” “I love it when you give me head, I hate it when you give me headaches. . . . I’ll beat the pussy up, that’s the hook right thurr. That’s the hook, right there . . .” Freedom and Julia had danced to that song, lip-syncing into a straightening iron for a microphone.