Out There Bad mm-2 Page 7

  “Real interesting. Where’s Uncle Manny?”

  “Glendale Adventist, that’s where the paramedics took Turaj.”

  “Paramedics?” Turaj was the club owner’s nephew and a worthless womanizer, but if anyone was going to fuck him up I wanted it to be me.

  “They hurt him bad. What the hell is going on, Mo?”

  “I don’t know. Call Doc, tell him to get his black ass in there, then call Jesus and see if he can put together a cleaning crew. Have them restock the bar. I’ll find Uncle Manny and see if he wants us to open.” Piper was much calmer when she hung up. The girls might mock me, think I was a jerk and a joke, but when the shit hit, I was always the first they’d call.

  “Gregor,” I called out, “stay put, and watch the door.”

  “What’s up, boss?” He came out of the kitchen carrying a fry pan he was drying.

  “When I know, I’ll call, so pick up.” I was out the door at a run.

  Uncle Manny was pacing in the surgical waiting room. Fereshteh, Manny’s wife, sat quietly with her head bowed. I had never met her, but recognized her immediately from the family photo Manny kept on his desk.

  “Moses?” Uncle Manny looked surprised to see me.

  “Where’s Turaj?”

  “Come.” Uncle Manny nodded his head out of the room. He led me through the hospital and out onto a small smoking balcony.

  “Do you have a cigarette?” It was the first he had spoken since leaving his wife.

  “Quit years ago,” I told him.

  “Me too.” His eyes were rimmed with red, and he looked old.

  “Who did it, Manny?”

  “This is none of your concern.”

  “Bullshit. Someone comes in my club, fucks with my people, it’s my business.”

  “It is not your club. It is my club, and I’m telling you to stay out of it.” His voice was flat and devoid of emotion.

  “Was it the Russians?”

  “Go home, Moses. This is family trouble, I will handle it.” Without meeting my eyes he turned and walked back into the hospital.

  Walking to my car, it hit me. How fucking stupid could one man be? In the mansion, we trussed up the old man and his thugs, but we left the girls free. They may have hated the mutants who held them captive, but without passports, or any cash, the girls didn’t have a lot of options. I made sure the Russians didn’t know my name, but Marina sure as hell knew my name and where I worked. If she sold me out to save her own skin, I didn’t blame her, I blamed myself for not thinking of it. Now Turaj was in surgery, he had taken the weight meant for me. Whether he gave me up straight away or they beat it out of him, fact was, I was sure they had my address.

  Running to a pay phone, I fumbled two quarters in and dialed home. The phone rang fifteen times before I clicked off.

  I parked around the corner from my house, I took my 1911.45 from the tire well, slipped it in my belt and moved quickly along the sidewalk. An empty black Mercedes was at the curb. Keeping their car between me and the house, I crouched down by the fender. It takes more force than most think to slit a tire, even with a razor honed buck knife. The air escaped with a crisp hiss. I peeked over the hood, but nothing moved in the house.

  Slipping along the side yard, I stole a glance into the bedroom. It was free of Russian dick heads. With a Bullmastiff as an alarm, I had taken to leaving my windows open. Pulling up onto the sill, I dropped silently to the floor. From the living room or kitchen, I heard several men speaking in Russian. I needed to cross the open doorway to get to the closet, and the hidden cabinet where I kept the big guns. Holding my breath, I took one long step across the opening. Pinned against the wall, I waited for them to come running. But they kept talking in the same casual tone.

  Sliding my hanging clothes aside, I pushed the spring lock on the cabinet set into the back wall. The lock popped much louder than I had hoped. The conversation in the living room stopped abruptly. Footsteps moved quickly toward the bedroom. I grabbed the first gun my hand hit, my Mossberg 12-gauge street sweeper.

  The first man through the door was a tanned muscle boy, he was sweeping the room with a small automatic when I rolled out of the closet. From the floor I fired up, the blast of buckshot took him in the chest and sent him doing the rag doll tumble into the living room.

  Racking a fresh shell in, I fired through the open door. Noise and gun smoke filled the small room. Crawling back into the closet, I grabbed my battle bag. It was a duffle I always kept packed and ready with cash, false and real ID, a change of clothes, my handguns and enough ammunition to end a small war.

  My bedroom exploded in a hail of bullets. Several Russians swung into the doorway and emptied their pistols, bullets pocked the walls and ripped my mattress to shreds. Shards from a mirror mixed with the spent shells hitting the floor. If I hadn’t been in the closet, I surely would have died in the blitz.

  The noise stopped as quickly as it started. When they ducked out to reload, I leapt up. Firing one aimless shot at the living room, I dropped the Mossberg and dove out the ruined window. Rolling when I hit the soft earth, I jumped to my feet and started running. Hitting the Crown Vic, I stomped on the gas and burned two black lines in the asphalt halfway up the block. It wasn’t until I hit Eagle Rock Boulevard that I let off on the pace.

  Parking in Foster Freeze’s lot, I listened for sirens. Thankfully, my home was in Highland Park, it would take the cops at least twenty minutes to respond if the neighbors even bothered to call it in. Down here, we take care of our own, and keep our mouths and eyes shut when it comes to the cops.

  The adrenaline eased off enough to lower the thump in my ears to a dull roar. What had happened to Gregor and Anya? If they were in the house and still alive, I doubted the Russians would have been talking so calmly. Fuck! If Angel was there, she would have run to me when I crept in. If those freaks killed my dog, I would paint the walls with their blood.

  Jamming into reverse, I squealed out onto the street. I was flying, rage driven, when I rounded the hill that separated Eagle Rock from Highland Park. The Vic slid around the sweeping corners in a four wheel drift.

  Victor was kneeling by the Mercedes’ front passenger tire. He was finishing tightening the lug nuts on the spare. His head jerked up when he heard me roaring down on him. He leapt up just in time to meet my grille. His legs flipped forward and his chest slammed down onto my hood. He left a face sized dent where his head smashed down. I stamped my foot down, locking up the massive brakes, and Victor rolled, tumbling off the hood and onto the pavement.

  Pulling my.45 I jumped out. I didn’t bother checking Victor, his threat factor had surely hit zero. The rest of the Russian crew were piled into the Mercedes. Spinning backwards, they bumped over the jack. Standing in the middle of the street, I popped off all seven shots in the clip as they sped away. Their windshield spider-webbed as the bullets struck it. They were gone too soon for me to know if I hit any of the occupants, but I didn’t have any time to worry about them. The cops would be rolling. Even Highland Park has its limits, and emptying a clip in the street, I was sure I had crossed them.

  I took the four steps up to my door in one big leap. Running from room to room, I searched for signs of death. If they had killed Gregor, Anya or my dog, they had done a damn clean job of it. Picking up the Mossberg, I heard the soft wail of sirens coming on fast. It was time to jet. Pulling down the blinds, I deadbolted the front door behind me.

  After policing up the.45 shells off the road, I grabbed the twisted and broken Victor and tossed him into the back seat. I drove quickly away from the oncoming cop cars. He was bitching and moaning in Russian as I took a series of sharp turns, losing myself in the hills of Mount Washington.

  Pulling behind a tall wild bramble on an empty hillside lot, I killed the engine. Slapping in a fresh clip, I racked a shell into the.45 and pointed it over the seat at Victor. “Where the fuck are they?” I said, fighting the urge to splatter him.

  “Who… I don’t know…” He was mumblin
g through clenched teeth.

  I struck his broken arm with the barrel of my.45. His scream sounded more animal than human. “Motherfucker. Talk or die, I don’t give a fuck which.” I shoved his head down with the pistol.

  “No!” His eyes were wild with pain and fear.

  “What did you do with my people?” I tapped his head hard with the pistol, to be sure I had his full attention.

  “No one… we found no one,” he said between moans.

  “Wrong answer.” I covered my face with my free hand to avoid getting blow-back gore in my eyes.

  “Pravda! No one!” His panicked fear was overriding his pain. I dropped the.45 into my lap. Down in the valley, the sounds of sirens had died out. There would be no going home now that it was a crime scene. I could only hope they wouldn’t link me to the house and put out an APB.

  It was time to go off the map, slip into the unregistered world where cash was king and all names were false. The Russian mobsters would be hunting me with deep vengeance in their hard little hearts, the cops might be looking for me, the feds were in the wings someplace and I was no closer to finding Anya’s sister.

  I pulled Victor out of the car on a side street near Glendale Adventist, it wouldn’t take long for a doctor or ambulance to find him crumpled in the middle of the street. I didn’t give a rat’s ass if he died, he had brought this crap to my home and he paid the price. Maybe I should have put one in his brain pan and left him in the hills, but I knew the truth of violence. The first life I took was in Beirut. I killed a woman in a fire fight. It was a mistake, doesn’t change the fact she was dead at my hand. I learned that moment that every life you take pulls a piece of you with them into the grave.

  CHAPTER 8

  I stay in the shadows. Work my way along the dock. There is the stink of diesel. Rotting fish. Salt brine coming off the Sea of Cortez. Bass thumps through the walls of the wharf dives. Above a strip club, a ruby neon woman bends and drops her top, over and over and over.

  “You looking for to get laid, mister?” He is slick. Shiny long hair pulled back into a ponytail. Several silver and gold crosses hang from his neck. They will not protect him.

  “I’m looking for a girl.” All trace of the Ukraine are gone. I speak Spanish, but to him, I speak English. My North American accent passes.

  “Sure, I get you cherry pussy. What chu like, big, little, skinny schoolgirl, fat mamacita, I got ‘em all.”

  “Russian, I want a Russian girl. You have any?”

  The pimp stares at my face. I feel his eyes trace the scar, the jagged line from my left eye down across my cheek all the way to my chin. “Does it frighten you?”

  “What, I’m no afraid, is bueno.”

  “You look afraid.” His eyes dart around, looking for help that will be too late. “Do you know who I am?” Stories are told of me across Mexico and Israel. Many think they are myths made up by the Mafia to scare independent operators out of the flesh trade. He has just figured out they are true.

  “It’s you.”

  “Yes, it is.” I back him deeper into the alley. This pimp tries to get to the blade in his pocket only to find his arm going limp. He didn’t feel the straight razor slice through his biceps. Blood flows down, quickly soaking the sleeve of his white coat. He holds the wound. He tries to staunch the flow. There is too much blood to be stopped.

  “Tell me about Russian girls.”

  “Chinga tu…” He steps forward. I drop low, sweep in a circle on my heels. My arm strikes out. The blade slices cleanly through the tendons behind his right knee. Like a puppet gone slack, the pimp crumples onto cobblestone.

  “If you know who I am, then you know you are going to die. Who has Russian girls in La Paz?”

  “No one, nada, Gordo G had, but no more. They take them to Ensenada. Swear.” His skin grows pale. A red lake forms under him.

  “Say your prayers.” Turning away, I gave him a moment to mumble his last words.

  I slash his throat. Clean. I find a small roll of pesos in his blood soaked pockets. I take rings and watch off his limp hands. I leave the crucifixes on his neck. I am careful not to slip on the gore. I drop the tarot card onto his body. I wipe my hands on my jeans. I pull the collar of my jacket up, its dark fabric hides the blood splatter.

  And across the Sea of Cortez, a van entered Ensenada. It was early evening, Nika knew, because the stale air around her was starting to cool off. Two days without food had left her weak and dizzy. Dreams and reality washed against each other. She lay with Anya on the bank of the Volga, sipping fruit juice and laughing at the boys showing off for the girls. A string bean with a shock of white blonde hair cannonballed into the icy water. Anya started to speak to her in Spanish. Nika tried to tell her she didn’t understand, but her sister kept rambling with ever increasing speed. The van hit a bump, and the Volga dissolved into a rolling cave. In the shadows, Nika could hear the rumbling growls and gnashing teeth of unseen beasts as they circled her.

  Passing a plaza, mariachi music dulled by the van’s walls mixed with children’s laughter and male whoops. The crackle of fireworks pulled Nika back into her body. She gathered her dress against the coming chill. The sounds of the plaza faded as they drove to the outskirts of town. After another twenty minutes of rutted twisting road, they came to a stop. The driver got out, rocking the van slightly on its shocks. A chain rattled and then large pieces of metal could be heard scraping against earth. The cab’s door slammed shut and they drove up a steep incline. The girls had to hold on to the side panels to keep from sliding into the back door.

  The van skidded to a stop on gravel. Iron hinges creaked, a heavy wooden gate closed behind them. The van’s back door opened, cool blue moonlight spilled in on the girls. They were tattered and worn out, like flowers the week after Valentine’s Day. Nika stumbled forward, almost falling when she stepped from the van. Without warning, a blurred beast charged Nika.

  “Wolf!” a deep voice yelled. Inches before the dog’s razor teeth connected with the girl, it stopped. “Down!” the master called, and the beast dropped onto its belly. Its yellow eyes watched the girl by the van, but it dared not move.

  Nika swayed on her feet, but didn’t scream or fall. They were in a large courtyard surrounded on three sides by an adobe hacienda, the final side blocked by an eight foot wooden gate. Sure that the canine threat had passed, Yumma and Zhanna crawled out behind Nika. Guzel, the mouse, stayed curled with her back pressed against the cab. Nika called for her to come out, but she didn’t look up.

  The pockmarked man came around the van, looking the three girls over with unhidden disgust. “Where’s the little one?” he demanded in Russian.

  Nika was the only one to meet his eyes. Her stare was met with a cuff that sent her sprawling onto the gravel. The beast lifted its snout, sniffing at her hungrily.

  “You have to learn to answer when asked a question.”

  “You didn’t give me time.” This time, he hit the back of her head. Instinctively, Nika reared up, ready to fight. Smashing his fist into her face, she tumbled backward. Tears ran down her face. When he stood over her, she looked up with undisguised hatred.

  He pulled back his foot, readying to kick the shit out of this insolent girl.

  “Zhenya!” A woman’s voice froze his foot mid-swing. A large woman in her mid-fifties, waddled across the courtyard. Shooing the man away from Nika, she leaned down. “Oh, my little flower, what has that brute done to you?” Softly, the woman brushed the hair out of Nika’s eyes. “Men can be so cruel, did he scare you?”

  Nika nodded her head slowly.

  “You needn’t be afraid, Svetlana is here to take care of you.” Helping Nika to her feet, Svetlana moved to inspect the other girls, stroking their hair and lifting their faces up so their eyes met hers. “Oh, what lovely girls you are. And where is your friend?”

  “She won’t come out, she’s afraid,” Nika said.

  “I see, very well. Who’s hungry?” All three girl’s faces lit at this. �
��Don’t tell me he didn’t feed you. Men! Come follow me.” As they passed the pockmarked Zhenya, Svetlana motioned slightly toward the van. The movement was so subtle that Nika thought she had imagined seeing it. As they reached the hacienda’s front door, Nika heard a squeal and turned to see Guzel being dragged from the van by her feet. She was clawing at the metal floor, fighting for purchase. With a yank, the man pulled her free. Guzel’s head hit the ground, her cry turned to a whimper. Before Nika could see more, the girls were pulled in through the door. The smell of frying meat and warm bread obliterated all feelings except hunger.

  To the left of the entryway was a large open dining room, around a long plank table sat twelve heavy wooden chairs. An ornate wrought iron chandelier bathed the room in golden candlelight. Several men sat, eating and talking. Between them, the table was piled with platters of steaming sliced beef, potatoes, squashes of every color, bowls of fresh fruit, bottles of red wine and vodka.

  Nika’s mouth was watering as she stumbled towards the dining room. Svetlana caught her elbow and steered her to the right, away from all the wonderful food and through a grand sitting room. With its large leather sofas and ironwork, it looked much like it had when the early Dons built the hacienda. Nika walked with her head turned back, watching the dinner disappear behind her.

  “Come, little one,” Svetlana said, “I’ll find you a nice bed to lay on and then bring you dinner. Relax, dears, your troubles are over.”

  The bedroom was at the back of the building. Five beds were the only furniture in the bare room. The walls were thick, dingy white adobe. There were no windows, the door was solid and heavy, when it was closed, all sounds of the outer house vanished. When Svetlana left to get dinner, they heard her turn the bolt in the door, locking them in.

  “See. I told you it was going to work out,” Zhanna said, flopping down on one of the beds.

  “You stupid twat,” Yumma snapped. Two days without a cigarette had left her nerves jangled and her mood rotten. “You think everything’s fine?”