A Good-Looking Corpse (18 page)

“Yeah, but whoever that is isn't the one who's gonna kill you. I am.”

“If Mikey lets you,” I remind him.

“You think he won't?” Crozier taunts. “Shit, I got you wrapped up into this mess just so I could finish you off. You're my little project. Mikey-Mike's just borrowing you for a minute.”

“What's he got lined up?”

“Haha, shit. Snitches get stitches. I'm not gonna play the rat. You'll find out when he's ready to dime it out.”

“You sound like Dr. Seuss.”

“Smart man, created an industry. You should see the box-office returns on
How the Grinch Stole Christmas
—I'll take the compliment.”

“Lemme ask you this,” I say, after a bit. “You say it's just business, sticking me. Why are you making it personal now?”

“Oh, it still isn't personal. I got paid to do a job, and I'm like Lee Van Cleef in The
Good, the Bad and the Ugly
. If I get paid, I always see a job through. That's just honorable. Same goes when I'm down in that pit for Mikey, taking lives.”

“You killed that guy?”

“Shit, which one?”

“Are they teardrops too?”

“Jealous?” Crozier smirks.

“I just don't want your face to end up looking like a jailhouse version of the Vietnam memorial.” I shrug. “It will if you keep doing Mikey Echo's bitch work.”

“If it makes you feel better, I just decided. I'm not gonna put steel in you, I'm gonna finish you off in the pit. Let everyone watch. The last thing you'll hear are the cheers as I tear out your throat like a fucking Rottweiler.
Woof, woof!
” Crozier barks. “You get a gladiator's death. My gift to you, smart-ass. How's that for ‘bitch work'?”

I decide to try a different tack. “You and your buddies don't mind being Echo's slaves?”

“You watch that ‘slave' shit,” he warns. “I got a lot of respect for a man who's willing to help me get rich.”

“You really think he'll help you get rich? You don't think he'll dispose of you like he did Bill Amos? Just use you and then give you the ‘Mulholland Falls' treatment?”

Crozier smiles, liking that I know about that. “I think Echo knows he needs me alive. You might think I'm just one of his house niggers, but I'm the one keeping the rest of the thugs in line, black, brown,
and
white. You really think they are scared of him? Hah.”

It's a statement that gives me an interesting idea.

We reach the stretch of road where the Holiday Inn looms tall off the freeway. A cream-colored set of twin towers, built like some half-cocked ode to 9/11. Beside them, a concrete carport is stacked five stories, floor to roof. We head for the carport, the Bentley easily muscling its way up the ramp. “Why did Mikey pick this place?” I muse aloud as we make the winding drive up toward the top of the structure.

“You know Echo. He always got a reason,” Crozier promises. Near the top there is a break where there are no cars at all. And then there are several of them—all hearses. Old ones, new ones, at least thirty of the cars, their elongated backs used for carrying coffins. All are parked neatly in stalls, collecting dust. This isn't some Hollywood prop of Mikey's, these cars look like they've been here for years.

As we round another corner, one down from the top, Mikey is waiting for us, leaning up against one of the hearses. Crozier parks his Bentley, which looks out of place here, right in the aisle, surrounded by the freaky old cars.

“What is this?” I ask my deceptive former friend.

“Cool, right?” says Mikey. “I so rarely have cause to come here anymore. The legend goes that the guy who built this hotel in the '70s, his wife and baby daughter were hit by a hearse and killed while crossing the street. They say the guy went a little mad after that, just buying up all the hearses he could find, taking 'em out of commission. So here they sit, dying themselves. I don't know if that's actually true, but I don't want to check into it. It's a neat story and isn't that what really matters?”

“Some say the truth matters,” I respond.

“Is that what you're here for? The truth?”

“I'd say we're past the games. Why don't you just tell me what you want.”

“Well, Tom, this is a delicate subject. I had to be sure I could manipulate you before I broached something of this magnitude. Now I feel confident that I have you under my thumb. You told me once that you would never go back to jail. I hear you went pretty quietly, so that's a lie, right? You're not a suspect as long as I tell the right people you're not. That switch can be flipped back on at any time though. Remember that. The point is, you now believe that I can hurt you. You believe that I can hurt people you care about. And so you should also believe me when I say this is a matter of extreme discretion. Not the sort of thing I want being broadcast. Because if it does get out, while it won't hurt me, I will know that it was you who did it. And I will react to that information badly.”

“Yeah, I got it. Mum's the word. What the fuck is it you want with me?”

“I want you to kill my dad.”

“What?” I exclaim, taken aback momentarily. “From what I hear, isn't that a bit like killing the golden goose?”

Mikey blanches. “You know how often I've heard that shit growing up? That I'd be nothing without him? That I'm lucky to have such a powerful presence in my life? Or the talk of nepotism that gets around? Imagine living in his shadow your entire life and see how it fucks with your sense of self-worth. You think George Echo gave me a damn thing? I've worked hard for everything I've ever achieved, but has there ever been an article written about me that didn't mention him?”

“I wouldn't know. There doesn't seem to be much written about you online.”

“If only the rest of it were so easy to bury. I figured you'd investigate ‘Mikey Echo,' so I had the information temporarily suppressed. If you have the power, you can manipulate anything you want. Josef Stalin knew that. I just wish I'd spent more time building an online presence for Ramen. But then, you didn't even try to friend him on Facebook.”

“This seems like a lot of work to have your dad snuffed out. Why don't you just get your thugs to do it?”

“Something like this requires more finesse than perhaps Crozier can muster,” Mikey says. If Crozier is hurt by the words, he hides it well. “Dad employs a team of ex-Israeli commandos as his security detail. Special forces types—Krav Maga and assault rifles. A group of ex-cons wielding makeshift prison knives isn't exactly up to the task.” That statement makes Crozier grimace slightly.

“You like death, why not do it yourself?”

“Much as I hate to admit it, there is a limit to my power. He's essentially the one murder I can't get away with. And so I need you.”

“But why me? If you can buy a mansion and exotic cars, surely you can hire your own Israeli commandos? Or a sniper?”

“This isn't a situation money can fix. Money is for blunt objects. I need someone intelligent who can get inside and yet, can be manipulated like a puppet.”

“You've got the wrong guy.”

“No, I think I've got the right guy. And besides, I'm not asking, I'm telling. You know what happens if you fail to comply, I don't need to remind you. This whole winding road has led us to this point.”

“I think I'll take my chances with the murder trial,” I tell him and turn to leave. Crozier is on me in a flash, ignoring his gun so that he can seize me instead. I find myself unable to move my upper torso and arms in his grip, but thrashing my legs backward, I aim high for his groin. He's able to sidestep it and still keep me locked in place though, and the familiarity of his strength from our prison days comes back to me—clearly he's kept up the workouts. We're moving to the edge, he and I, and no amount of my squirming can loosen me from his clutch. The impact against the concrete siding knocks the wind momentarily from my lungs as he dumps me up and over the ledge so I can't even muster the breath to yell out.

The sensation is intense, dangling out over the asphalt driveway, four stories up and nothing but Crozier's hands keeping me from taking a hard hit off the pavement.

My cellphone suddenly slips free of my pocket and drops fast, exploding into a dozen pieces on the pavement below.

“Alan didn't leave a good-looking corpse behind. I'm sure the pavement will be just as unforgiving to you,” Mikey says from somewhere at the ledge above me.

“I won't splatter nearly as much,” I manage to say from my position. In response, I feel Crozier abruptly release one of my legs. I am now one hand away from the drop.

“Jokes don't seem to be working for you right now, Tom,” Mikey warns me.

It will be over quick
, I tell myself.
In less than three seconds and you won't even feel the pain. Your neck will shatter before your brain can process a sensation. From this position, I will keep my head level to hit the parietal lobe first, instantly crushing my somatosensory cortex while compacting my spine—there won't be enough time to feel anything before I black out. Just tell him to drop you. Do it. Don't let him win
.

But then I think of Ivy. She'd never let this go, no matter what anyone told her. She'd try to avenge me and wind up dead in the process.
That is, if Mikey doesn't go after her first
. That's the reality in all this—I can't go out this way without pulling her down too. If I die here, she'll be dead not long after, baby or not. At once, I feel something powerful for her…beyond a gratitude. I know I would avenge her death just as savagely. I couldn't live with myself and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that she couldn't either. That's the thing about all this: not only would I die for her, but I have to live for her too.

“My grip is slipping,” Crozier interrupts my Zen focus.

“How am I supposed to get to your dad?” I ask, resigned to living. The strong man's other hand clamps back on my leg and hauls me in, bouncing my head and torso off the unfinished concrete ledge. As soon as I am back on the ledge, he releases me to grasp at his hands, rubbing them. I flop to the floor of the garage, steadying myself against a hearse and look up at Mikey, expectant.

“Good, now we're getting somewhere,” he says. I notice that his Ramen persona is the same as his Mikey. Emotionally and tonally he is the same, which is a plus because I am adept at reading him already, there isn't much of anything new to discover…more confidence, maybe. “It was frustrating spinning our wheels on this,” he continues. “Having to revisit the same talking point: I have you under my thumb. Now I hope we're on the same page?”

“I'll behave,” I promise and use the wall to help me stand, still uneasy about my near dance with gravity.

“Here's what happens. Us Hollywood folk love awards. My dad especially. And so he will make a rare public appearance this Wednesday to collect a philanthropy award at the Millennium Biltmore Hotel. Crystal Ballroom. They filmed
Ghostbusters
there. Considering what a hermit crab he is, I'm surprised he's showing up. It's our best chance for you to do it—otherwise he only moves between his house in the hills and his country club—and he always has his ex-commandos with him.”

“Yeah, but how do you think I can pull this off?”

Mikey pulls a small vial of clear liquid from his pocket. “With this. Aconite. Virtually untraceable. He'll look like he died of a heart attack. But even if it is detected, it won't be until the autopsy and poisoning is so en vogue with the ruling class. Some of history's greatest leaders have been poisoned. He drinks a single glass of Macallan Scotch a night. That's where we hit him.” Mikey returns the vial to his pocket.

“Why don't you just sub out the bottle of Macallan at the hotel with a poisoned one before the party even happens, then? You don't need me for that.”

“If only it were that easy, Tom. See, George purchased several cases of Macallan 64 in Lalique Cire Perdue—a single bottle of the stuff sold for $464,000 at auction because they claimed it was the only one. He brings a bottle with him when he goes out and it is guarded at all times by one of his security detail. See what I mean about a finesse operation? I need your brains to get it into that glass. It's poetically important to me that he be killed by the only thing he ever really loved.”

“So that's it, then?” I say, shaking my head. “This isn't about power, it's about punishing your dad. I don't think I can get it into his glass if he's got these commandos guarding him.”

“That's George's secret though,” Mikey emphasizes. “He's terrified of being murdered, but he's also arrogant. In public, he won't want his guards close because he'll look like he's afraid. They'll be there alright, but he'll keep them at a distance.”

“I still don't know how I can get it into his glass. Or this event. Won't it be by invite only?”

“See, they invited me because they don't know there is a complex history, and they think I'd want to be there to watch my father win an award. The ticket even has a plus one, so you'll be bringing Crozier to make sure there's no funny business.”

“No homo,” Crozier pipes up suddenly.

“He'll also be taking your invitation back once you're inside, to ensure there are no links to me if anything goes wrong. As for the how, we've rented you a tuxedo matching the ones worn by the waiters. Pretend to clear a plate or two and then pour a little in his glass when no one is looking. After that, feel free to stay and watch the awards if you want. Or you can leave. Whether you ever hear from me again is contingent upon how successful you are.”

“I don't like it.”

“It's not for you to like or dislike.” Mikey shrugs. “It's for you to do. You see why I needed to put you in the position you're in? Sure, there's a risk of failure. But I feel you can handle an
attempted
murder charge a lot better than you can handle a murder charge. Unless the security guys get to you first.”

“Give me the poison,” I say, extending my hand.

“Hahaha, no, not yet,” Mikey laughs. “I need your smarts but I also fear them. I think you'd love to find a way to use it on me. You would, wouldn't you?”

“In a heartbeat,” I agree.

“See?” Mikey nods. “You're even making puns. You're so quick, Tom. That's why I believe in your ability to pull this off. I've chosen you to kill the one person I want dead in this world more than anything. In a way, you should consider this all a compliment.”

“So when do I get it, then?”

“Come by my house on Tuesday at seven. I'll give you the vial and your tux along with the invitation. I trust that you will still be smart enough by then to not do anything stupid.”