A Good-Looking Corpse (20 page)

Lifting out the top tray, I find a cache of Ecstasy pills, heroin, and cocaine in bulk supplies, nothing portioned out for individual use. Nope, this is all about selling and not using. I've run out of room to carry any of it, so I search the closet for a bag. Inside, a large black duffel sits.

Curious, I slide the zipper open on the bag and find steel inside—lots of it. All guns. Black, silver, nickel plated, machine guns, submachine guns, and handguns. Uzis, TEC-9s, none of it legal, I'm sure. Nothing so nice as the golden .50 caliber, but then, what could be? I haul the duffel out of the closet, lifting it with both hands. It's heavy, but I don't dare leave it behind. There's a good chance that the guns that killed Harold are somewhere inside. Setting it on the bed, I find nothing else that would make a good tote for the drugs, so instead, I carry the mess out and to the toilet, which being in the clubhouse of men, has the seat in the up position. The powders go in first, clumping down into the water, absorbing it, diluting. Next I dump the Ecstasy in, the small white pills spilling out through a hole I tear in the bag. The syringes and steroids go in as well, with me uncapping the syringes to let their liquids spill free. All that's left is the smaller baggie of heroin. I hesitate for a moment, really considering keeping it. It would be amazing to feel that high at least one more time. But then I rip it open and dump it as well. All of it is now worthless. But I am not yet finished.

Heading back into the first bedroom, I grab a can of spray paint in each hand, neon orange and silver, and cautiously rolling the marble around within each can rather than shaking it, I begin my assault, streaking the bedroom with thick mists of paint—walls, bedding, thongs, and bra. I ignore the Mexican flag and the wall mural out of a semblance of respect for culture and art, but tag the TV screen and the furniture as well as the clothes in the closet. I move into the next bedroom and resume my attack, hitting the trophies and car parts. I stop briefly to dump the muscle powder on the floor, careful not to leave a footprint in it, and then head back to Coco's room.

Instead of spray-painting the contents of the room as I did the others, I instead focus on the blank expanse of white wall above his bed. Standing on the mattress beside the duffel bag, I aim the orange can of paint and spray out a name: Mikey Echo. The writing is streaky but good. Below it I add a biohazard symbol so there is no doubt. Though I lack the talent of the artist who did the naked Latina, I will get the point across nicely through my tagging.
Coco will understand
.

Dropping the can, I find I am scared of what I have done. From here on out, this is the point of no return. I toss off the rubber gloves, their exterior wet with paint, and grab up the AK-47. As a final insult, I take Coco's eagle-medallion necklace from the dresser and, for lack of a better spot, slip it around my neck.

Then I hear the dead bolt being thrown open.

With an AK-47 in my hands and a bag full of guns beside me, I am not quite trapped like a rat, but this is fucking bad. Scratch that, bad is a fucking understatement. This is now a kamikaze mission, a one-way ticket sort of scenario. The door opens and footsteps, a single pair, enter the house, the metal safety door banging behind them loudly.

“Wake up, fuckers!” I hear the voice announce loudly in the front room, angry and accented. “You're supposed to be watching the clubhouse—what kind of bullshit is this? You pass out? Fucking worthless.”

The return is groggy, mumbled and indistinguishable. The new arrival doesn't like what he hears. “You're lucky it's just me and not Coco—he would be a lot more furious.”

I glance toward the windows, all of them are barred with thick iron poles. It really is the jailhouse all over again. Through the front window I make out a lowered white Impala on the street, glossy and chromed—a perfect match for the blanket in bedroom number two.
The musclehead
. He must have come up while I was spraying. I step cautiously to the other side of the room, level with Coco's bedroom door. The sweat has turned heavy and cold on my skin, clinging, making me shiver, and I have to force my teeth to not clack together. I raise the AK-47 to chest height, readying myself to start firing as soon as I see brown flesh come through the doorway. It's more fear than I prepared myself for—I am shaking slightly and I realize how much I do not want to die here in this house.

From the living room, the action is centered on the musclehead harassing the two boys.

“Quit it,” one of the boys yelps, and the sharp crack of fabric against skin emanates through the wall. “Owww, Carlos,” the boy whines. If I had to guess, I'd say Carlos took his shirt off and whipped the boy.

“C'mon already,” I whisper, the sweat on my brow now dripping down, making my eyeballs sting. The rifle is shaking harder now, my hands tensed around the grips, fatiguing. I am ready to head out into the living room and square it up myself. Just go for Carlos first. Conserve bullets and pray the other two aren't carrying. I've got the element of surprise.

“I was going to take you with me to Tito's!” Carlos chides the boys.
“
Tengo hambre!
”

“I'll go,” both of the young ones say, suddenly animated.

“Ha, no Tito's for you now, disappointing fuckers. You stay—awake this time. Pay for my lunch and I might bring you back a taco. To share.”

A Velcro wallet is ripped open. One of the boys mumbles something.

“No sauce,” Carlos snaps. “Be thankful if you get a fucking thing, passing out on watch. Fucking amateur hour.”

“Will you tell Coco?” one of the boys asks, fearful, pleading.

“I was a recruit once too.” Carlos laughs. “Fuck no, I won't tell Coco—you'd be dead just like that—if he found you, he wouldn't even wake you. Just stab, stab and we'd be burning bloody couches in the backyard.”

“Thanks, Carlos,” the boy says, cowed.

“Don't fuckin' thank me, just prove to me that you are worthy of S.L. colors. Shit is serious. I'll be back.”

The metal door opens and slams again. Carlos whistles his way out to the gate, but I stay where I am, tense. The boys are wide awake now, making my exit a difficult one still.

“You were supposed to stay awake,” one boy scolds the other.

“
Chupa mi pito,
”
the other retorts. They stay on the couches.

“I gotta piss but I'm too fucking lazy to get up,” one of them says after a moment. The other laughs in agreement.

I lower the gun but don't lessen my grip on it. If I'm going to leave, the time is now.
Fuck it, the symbol on the wall will inform Coco exactly who was here anyhow.
And these boys, their death warrant is already signed. I can't save them now. I place the AK-47 quietly atop the other guns and heft the duffel. My pistol in my other hand, I step into the living room, catching them by surprise. My hood is up, pulled low across my forehead, and the gun is pointed between them.

“What the—” the one farther from me starts to ask, but the gun shifts toward him and he stops, afraid. Both are too shocked to move.

“Don't move,” I command anyhow. “Listen to me. Coco is going to kill you for this. There's nothing you can do about it now. I suggest you wait until I am gone and then you run. Save your own lives. Steal a car, get out of town. But don't stay here.” I set the duffel down to reach into the pocket of my hoodie and retrieve the two bundles of hundred-dollar bills. I throw them on the floor between the couches. “That will get you somewhere,” I say. “So take it.” Their eyes widen at the cash.

I know it isn't going to happen—they won't leave. They're too stupid. Maybe they will even offer Coco his own money back. Their best bet will be that the gangster will let one of them live long enough to positively identify me, but he will die soon after. Cautiously picking up the duffel, I back toward the kitchen, and an anger pokes through the fear on the face of one of them. The other still looks drunk and afraid.

“Run,” I warn once more and then take my own advice. Sprinting through the kitchen and out the back. I vault down the steps, and not hearing footsteps behind me, I pray that they aren't foolish enough to try me. Swinging for momentum, I heft the guns over the wall and leap onto the barbecue grill. I make it over the other side, crashing down onto the trash can hard before tumbling down to the dusty overgrowth breaking through the alley concrete. Not taking the extra second to brush the dirt from my face and hands, I retrieve the duffel and run like hell in the direction of my car.

I toss the duffel, the gold Desert Eagle, and my pistol into the trunk. I drive, determined, back toward Burbank. Coco's medallion still hangs around my neck. I pull it off and set it on the seat. It's perfect. Better than perfect really, and I know just what to do with it. The .50 caliber too. They'll be a package deal, I decide. Now to get a new phone and some wrapping paper.

“What happened to Crozier?” Mikey asks when I dial him up on my new smartphone, a wrapped package now seated beside me in the Charger—identical colors to which he'd presented me Holly's skull. My gift is its own kind of death.

“I'm gonna need a new plus one,” I say.

“How'd it happen?” he asks after a full dramatic pause. I can imagine him raging on the other side of the phone.

“You know what happens when people don't put their windows all the way down? It's like a guillotine in car crashes.”

“Congratulations to you on getting your revenge, then,” he says, understandably irritated.

“I haven't gotten my revenge, not yet,” I promise Mikey.

“You think killing Crozier changes anything between us? It won't. I have others who can fill his shoes. You're still very much on my hook.”

“I didn't call to talk your human resources strategy. I called because I made a decision: I'll go along with your plan.”

“That's a smart business decision,” Mikey agrees.

“And since every business deal deserves a gift, I thought I'd bring you one.”

“I'm not really in the mood for gifts right now, Tom. If it's Crozier's skull, you keep it. You've earned it.”

“No, I'm not down to your level of depravity yet. I think you'll appreciate it though.”

“You're coming over on Tuesday, give it to me then.”

“I don't think it can wait. C'mon, where are you? You're not scared of me, are you?”

“Of course I'm scared of you, Tom. You're clearly kind of a freaky dude. You want to meet me? Fine. You come to my turf then. I'm at my office on the Fox lot. Tell the guard at the gate you have a meeting with me. And don't get too clever for your own good. We had some good times, you and me, don't forget those because of this recent unpleasantness.”

“Oh, I won't,” I promise him. “Like I said, I think you're gonna like it.”

Driving onto the movie studio lot is yet another reminder that Hollywood is a veneer—entertainment as a business. Instead of movie stars, glitz, and glamour, I get offices and a big drab soundstage.
At least it's clean, not like the actual streets of Hollywood
. I find Mikey's office on the map and park outside, next to an empty space that reads
R
ESERVED FOR
T
OM
S
AWYER.

Mikey's office is an extension of his home decorating. Red and black, grim imagery masquerading as wall decor and a fearsome gargoyle statue mounted at face height just inside the door.

At the front desk, an attractive Middle Eastern–looking woman reads the same copy of Us Weekly Don Tart had on his coffee table. She puts it down to greet me. “He's in his office, Tom,” she says with her sultry and surprising proper English accent, nodding to a door past the desk. I move through the office, sinking oh so slightly into the plush carpeting beneath me as I go, and shift the box in my hands to open the door, marveling at the opulence of the place. No expenses spared in Mikey Echo's world—ever.

Mikey is seated atop his desk, holding a pistol, a small, snubbed thing, like a woman might carry in her purse. He grins sheepishly when he sees the wrapped package. “Beware Greeks bearing gifts, right?”

“I'm not Greek,” I say, nonplussed.

Mikey hops from the desk and leaves the pistol behind. Considering that it's there, I am tempted to make a move for it. But I have bigger plans in play. I extend the box to him and he takes it excitedly. “Is it fragile?”

“Not at all,” I say. “Go ahead and shake the hell out of it.”

“It's not a bomb, is it?”

“I wish it were,” I tell him and settle onto a couch in the room. It's soft leather and I sink down comfortably.

Mikey retreats to his chair behind the desk and sets the gift in front of him, cautiously, still afraid he might damage it. He's about to tear into it, and then looks up. “Where are my manners? Can I get you a beverage?” He gestures to a long, narrow bar of expensive crystal decanters containing assorted spirits. “There are Sprites in the fridge.”

“I'm good. Open your gift.”

“What about parking? Did you get a close spot?”

“Right next to Tom Sawyer.”

“Ha,” he says, “that's Steven Spielberg's. He had to start using a pseudonym because people kept leaving scripts on his windshield.”

“Open your present,” I remind him.

“Yeah, right,” he says, eyeing it. And then I realize he's nervous to do so.

“I said you would like it. It was tough because what do you get the guy who has everything—including a gargoyle.”

“How about that gargoyle, huh? I got it to mount outside the building, but it's much more terrifying where it is. You know, it came from the set of—”

“Open it. I've got stuff to do today,” I interrupt.

“Okay, okay,” he says. “Sheesh.” Gently removing the bow, he begins to carefully loosen the paper from the tape.

“The cake will get moldy if you continue at that speed,” I warn him. Finally, he tears into it and pulls the lid from the box.

“Holy shit!” Mikey exclaims when he sees what's inside. He's like a kid on Christmas. “Is this for real?” He lifts the clunky gold eagle medallion and equally gold .50 caliber pistol from the box at the same time, holding them up in the light. “They're so heavy,” he says.

“I see you've already got a gun, so if you want I can take it back,” I offer, sarcastic.

“Don't you fucking dare. This is incredible!” Mikey sets the gun down to put on the eagle necklace. As expected, it looks gaudy as fuck. Quickly, he picks up the gun again, admiring it. “I love it. I never knew I wanted anything like this until just this moment.” Proud, he nods his head. “Tom, I underestimated you. This is the nicest thing anyone has ever given me.”

“You've earned it.” I shrug.

“Sylvie,” he yells to his assistant through the door. She comes in quickly. “Look what Tom got me!”

“Oh my God. Smashing, Mr. Echo. We've got to have a photo. Let me get my mobile.” She returns with her phone.

“Wait, take it in front of the Goya,” Mikey commands and moves over to a picture on his wall of a woman and child, the picture's subjects terrified of a ghostly apparition. Sylvie obliges him, rolling her eyes. “Say cheese,” she commands.

“Balla!” he yells and takes a fantastic action shot, pointing the gun at the camera, menacing, while holding up the medallion. It's more than I could hope for.

“Send me that photo,” I ask of Sylvie, not needing to feign delight at the circumstances. It is easier than I hoped it would be.

“Absolutely,” she promises. “I have your phone number at the desk. I'll send it now.” She leaves the inner office to do just that.

“Where did you get this, Tom? From a crime scene?”

“Something like that,” I say. “It definitely looks good on you.” Inside my pocket I feel my phone vibrate as the picture arrives.