A Good-Looking Corpse (24 page)

“Check the closet,” I whisper to Ivy. She moves over to do so, wielding the knife and watching the door as well. She slides open the door to the closet and pushes some some clothing aside to find a speargun at the back, leaning up against the wall.

“This,” she mouths, holding it up, evidently never having seen one. I wave for her to bring it over.

“Tom?” Mikey asks, his voice rising as the agitation seeps in.

“Still here,” I yell back, stalling. I hand Ivy the gun and retract the bolt on the speargun, readying it. My heart is pounding through my ears in a manner I've never experienced. I'm convinced it's about to go arrhythmic and so I force myself to take big breaths to slow it down.

“Where are they, already? These sharks make me nervous!” George once again calls from upstairs. “I'm gonna be irritated if I gotta clean up another of your messes.”

“Alright, enough of this shit,” Mikey mutters angrily outside. “Break it all down.”

A thud sounds against the door as a man kicks at it, but the mattress holds. “Pull back the bed some,” I whisper from my vantage point now near the door. Dragging, Ivy does so and it allows the mattress to fall back on the bed. The next shot puts the guard's foot through part of the brittle wood, knocking a hole. The black waffle-print sole of his boot is partially visible, and I place the speargun right up near it, waiting, figuring that with the hole, someone will want to take a look. As soon as I see part of a face come into view, I press the trigger, blasting the spear forward, point-blank. A screech sounds unholy as the sharp projectile connects, ripping through the man's ocular cavity and out the back of him. Blood begins to slime forward through the hole and the spear sticks in the door, now leaning at an odd angle as the man dies, slumped against it.

“Fuck,” Mikey screams, recovering from his shock. “Ahh, fuck!”

“We're gonna lose the sharks!” George Echo yells down.

“I see you found my speargun,” Mikey yells, ignoring his father, no longer quite as menacing, more surprised. I push the mattress back up, forcing the spear and the man attached to it to fall back in the hallway. “Fuck,” Mikey says again when the man drops and he gets a full look.

A gunshot rings out, destroying the lock on the door and the guards rip the door free. “The frame,” I yell, and Ivy shoves it back into place. I take the gun from her. “Lean up against the headboard with your back. Put your feet into it,” I tell her. The remaining guards push against the top of the mattress, attempting to topple it backward. I step up onto the box frame of the bed with the intention of keeping the mattress in place.

“Drag him out of the way,” one guard orders the other about the dead body. I hear the sound of sliding as the body is removed from the equation. The mattress begins to bend down as the remaining guard pushes against it. Instead of blocking it, I step back, letting it concave with the force. When it bends inward just enough, I lean over the top of it and fire several shots down at the man. I don't see if they land, but the telltale thud on the floor tells me at least one hit.

“He has a gun!” Mikey yells, surprised. “Where did you get a fucking gun, Tom?” he then yells at me. He's back to furious now, yelling at the remaining guard. “What the hell is going on? You're supposed to be fucking experts.”

“How do you train for this, man?” the guard yells back from farther up the hall, equally enraged.

“Fall back or whatever, we've got to figure something else out,” Mikey sputters.

I jump down to join Ivy beside the headboard. “You okay?” I whisper, still afraid to give away our position. She nods. There is commotion above us now, Mikey is back upstairs and shouting; I can hear George Echo answer, but both men's words are indiscernible.

“I think we can survive this,” I tell her, louder now.

“You were amazing,” she gushes, amped as well.

“
We
were amazing.” I smile for the first time. “We make a great team, even if we are fucked up.”

“You're really good at killing people. Don't make it a habit though, okay?” Ivy offers me her palm for a celebratory high five and I hit it.

“I couldn't have done this without you,” I tell her.

“Okay, so what do we do now?” she asks.

“Well, I'm going to get my pulse out of the heart attack range,” I say. “If you need to do so as well, now is probably the time.”

“I have to pee,” she says, biting her lip. “And I'm hungry.”

“If we get out of this, I'll take you straight to In-N-Out,” I promise her. “As for the peeing, this is one of those situations where I will absolutely never make fun of you for going in your pants.”

“I can't pee yet, there's one more commando guy,” she reminds me. “Still, I'm going to hold you to the In-N-Out—and you have to gimme a kiss to hold me over.” More yelling from topside and the sound of something being moved breaks our lips apart. “What was that?” she asks. A loud splash sounds in the water to the side of us. “Shark?”

I shake my head. “I think it's the Zodiac,” I say. “The inflatable boat,” I explain further when I can see her trying to figure how astrology plays into this. The motor on the little boat fires to life. I move to look out the window on the port side, but can't see anything except the sea around us. I move over to check the windows on the other side, but still nothing. Whatever is happening, is going off at the back of the yacht.

“I think either Mikey is abandoning ship or the last guy just quit,” I speculate, excited by either possibility. Several loud gunshots ring out then over the sound of the small engine, which abruptly quits, leaving us in sudden silence. Ivy waves for me to join her again, terrified.

I rub my hand against the burning sweat on my forehead, thinking. “I think we should go up there,” I say, finally deciding. I begin to stand but Ivy pulls me back.

“What if it's a trap?” she asks. “What if they made it sound like something was going wrong, but really the last guy is still out there?”

The thought seems ridiculous, but I pause. “You've been right before. What do you think we should do?”

“I don't know,” she admits. “That was my best good thought.”

“Okay, well, we'll just sit here for a bit and see what happens,” I say.

A creaking noise sounds far outside the room, someone coming down the stairs. I wait, expecting to hear Mikey start talking, but there is nothing. “He's waiting,” I whisper. “I think you were right.”

“I hate being right,” Ivy whispers back.

More footsteps sound on the stairs, louder ones. “Tom?” Mikey yells from a distance, unwilling to chance coming closer to the doorway. “I think we should call this one a draw. My dad is impressed—he thinks you both should live.”

“Your gumption is astounding,” the elder Echo confirms from the hallway. “This place is a mess.”

“What happened up there?” I yell back, too curious to resist.

“My captain just quit,” Mikey answers. “He tried to take my Zodiac so I stopped him. The sharks have him now if you want to check it out.”

“What about the last guard?”

“We'll tell him to set down his gun,” Mikey says. “Listen.” He then speaks to the guard, but keeps his voice loud. “Put down your gun.” Something drops with a soft thud in the hallway. “Okay, it's down,” he yells back to us.

“What about your gun?” I remind him.

“I left it up on deck,” he yells back.

“And I seldom carry a weapon,” George informs us.

“Nobody thinks you're carrying a weapon, Dad,” Mikey says to his father.

I look to Ivy for suggestions, she shakes her head.

“No deal,” I yell. “We're gonna stay right here. Take us back to land and we'll think about coming out.”

“Tom, I can't drive a yacht. Can you?”

“Have your guard jump into the water then. Have him swim out to the side so I can see him out the window.”

There is a muttered exchange of words outside, then Mikey announces aloud: “He says he can't swim and he won't go into the water because of the sharks. You really ought to come see them though, Tom. They really are terrifying. I don't know what I was thinking bringing them here. Now I just want them to go away.”

“We're not coming out with the guard around,” I yell.

A sudden booming gunshot splits the air and a body falls hard in the hallway. “Okay, he's now dead, Thomas. I shot him,” George Echo yells.

“I thought you seldom carry a weapon,” Ivy yells back. “Liar.”

“Ivy, welcome to the conversation,” Mikey says, affecting a good-natured air. “My dad didn't lie—I gave him my gun just now. Technically,
I
was lying, but it just worked to your benefit, right? And for the record, he really did shoot his guard.”

Something heavy hits off the mattress and lands on the ground outside. “That was me throwing the gun away,” George pleads. “Now please come out so we can work out some financial arrangement, yes? I'm sure a few million dollars would help you raise that baby in style, hmm? And I think we'd all be happy to never see each other again.”

“I'm going to have a look out,” I say quietly to Ivy, popping the clip out to count the bullets. I slap it back in place and hand her the gun. “There are three shots left in there, including one in the chamber. That means it will go off if you pull the trigger, so keep your finger off unless you need to use it.”

“No,” she mouths, not wanting to accept it, but I force it into her hands.

“We can't stay in here forever. I'm just going to have a look.”

“Tom?” Mikey asks.

“Hold on, we're thinking,” I announce.

“I heard a gun being loaded in there,” Mikey responds. “I told you…we're unarmed.”

“Go back up on deck, then,” I yell. “Let us come up when we're ready.”

“Okay,” George Echo says, then warns: “Just remember, if I get shot, you stay poor.” I hear him chastising his son as they march back up the stairs.

“I'm just going to look,” I repeat, soothing, to Ivy.

I move over to the doorway and slowly peel the mattress away, listening. Growing bolder, I edge my hand out into the hallway to see if someone will take a shot. There is nothing though. “Christ, c'mon, c'mon,” I murmur, wanting to believe.

Breathing deeply, I once again try to settle my heartbeat. My nerves are jangled though and it's no use.
This will end at some point
, I remind myself. If
you get shot in the head, you won't even know it. Everything will fade to black and you'll just stop being involved. And your death will give Ivy the information she needs to have a chance at survival
.

I glance out, darting my head into the doorway, and then pull back. Nothing. No shots fired, no movement from the hall. I chance it again, extending my head out farther, counting. “One guard…two guard, and…” farther down the hall, by the stairs, I see him slumped over, a pool of fresh blood spreading outward, soaking into the tan carpeting.
Mikey wasn't bluffing.
“And guard number three.” Even more convincing is the golden .50 caliber Desert Eagle lying at the base of the mattress. I reach down to retrieve it, remembering what a heavy, impractical weapon it is.

I pull back inside the master bedroom where Ivy is peeking over the headboard, waiting. “He was telling the truth,” I say. “It's a bloodbath out there.”

“What should we do?” she asks. “I don't trust him, Tom. Him or his dad.”

“Me neither,” I agree. “But we have the guns.”

“I wish we'd listened to my boss. We should have just stayed in bed, fucking.”

“Tomorrow,” I promise. “If we get out of this, all-day screwing. Round the clock. We'll order pizza in, we'll even give…whatever you named the dog some.”

“It's Tom Junior officially. I've decided.”

“No, it's not going to be Tom Junior,” I protest.

“I love the name ‘Tom,' ” Ivy exclaims. “It's perfect.”

“So save it for the baby.” I shake my head.

“Well, what are we going to name the dog, then?” she asks.

“How about we worry about that tomorrow?” I say.

“Okay,” she agrees. “So should we go up?”

“I'll go,” I say. “You stay here for now. Let's move the bed.”

She stands and helps me push the frame away from the door. The mattress falls atop it, opening up the corridor to us. “Here goes nothing,” I say, giving her a quick kiss.

“I love you,” she whispers.

“Ahh, why do you gotta do that?” I whisper back. “It was a perfectly nice moment already.”

“I love you,” she says again, louder.

“Ehh.” I grimace. “I love you too.” The words form awkwardly in my mouth.
It doesn't mean you don't mean it though
, I think.

“See?” She smiles. “That wasn't so hard.”

I shake my head and step up onto the mattress, holding the glossy weapon in front of me. If Mikey was telling it correctly, the Sureño Lowriders weren't going to be an issue any longer. That alone was something to breathe easier about.
Sorry I couldn't do the job personally, Harold
, I think, stepping around the dead men in the hallway.
But I got the guys who got the guys, and that should count for something
.

I pause at the stairwell, listening for anything on the next level, but it is silent. Keeping my feet to the outermost part of each step, I ascend cautiously, attempting to avoid the creaks.

The guard I got with the glass bottle has been moved off to the side in the lounge, facedown, the mouth of the bottle extending upward. Most of his blood is soaked into the carpeting here, but some of it has been tracked onto the stairs leading up to the deck, the bloodiest of the footprints leading up and out.

I stalk across the lounge, moving the gun around, checking behind me, expecting an ambush, but there is still nothing. I'll go up, I decide, when I reach the pool of red at the base of the next stairs.

Poking my head up on deck, I bring the gun up ahead of me, still looking for signs of life, but it too is eerily quiet. A swell rocks the boat, making me move unsteadily; I correct for it and step out off the stairs. The deck level appears to be empty, but I don't want to move too far out into the open to probe. A splash sounds in the water off the back of the boat, something emerging up out of the water and then dipping back down.
Just the sharks
, I tell myself.

The blood tracked up on deck goes all different directions here, tracked by Mikey and George. The freshest tracks go up to the next level though and I follow them up.

I find Mikey in the dining room, one level down from the top of the yacht, an expansive dining that is remarkable in that it isn't decorated by imagery of skulls or Hell. I step into the room, leaving the door hanging open. The decor, a blend of earth tones and marine-grade upholstery actually feels light and pleasant with the sunlight shining through its many windows. Mikey is seated in a booth behind an oblong dining table that has been bolted into the yacht's flooring. The table, stained a high-gloss tan, is currently housing a small pile of cocaine that Mikey is focused on cutting into crisp lines with a black American Express card. “Well, Tom, technically you proved my point,” Mikey says, glancing up and eyeing me cautiously, with newfound fear. “I need to get that dollar back from my dad.” He's already high as shit and looking to become more so.

“Where is your dad?” I ask, the gun pointed at Mikey as my eyes scan the room.

“He's up in the wheelhouse trying to charter a helicopter. He's pissed,” Mikey says, glum, taking the entirety of the blame onto himself. Behind me, a latch on the door to the dining room slaps off its locking mechanism, bouncing metal against metal, a sharp bang timed with the ocean swells.

“Are you armed?” I persist.

“Only with credit cards.” He smiles, wan, and hoovers up a line with a rolled hundred-dollar bill.

“What happens now?” I ask, suddenly feeling like Ivy.

Clack
, goes the door.

“You tell me; you're the one with the gun. I'm prepared to negotiate a large cash settlement though, if you want to let me live.”

“I don't want your money,” I tell him. “Or your father's.”

Clack
.

“Well then, we don't have a whole lot to talk about.” He snorts another line.

“We need to get to shore,” I say.

“Ha, my dad's not gonna let that happen. You think he's going to pay you off? He wants to blow my boat up. With you and Ivy on it. He says that will be the easiest course of action.”

Clack
.

“How is he going to do that?”

“He's trying to get the pilot to bring dynamite.”

“It sounds like he's the one I should be talking to.”

Clack
.

“That's what everyone says.” Mikey shrugs. He goes back to meticulously sorting his cocaine.

“Hey, what happened in 1924?” I ask him, trying to make him focus.

“What?” he asks, and I feel like it's the first time I've actually gotten his attention.

“1924,” I repeat. “It's the security code to your skull room.”

“Oh.” He smiles, stoned. “That 1924. William Randolph Hearst murdered a movie producer aboard his yacht.” Mikey laughs.

The sudden quiet grabs my attention—the absence of the door smacking against its lock. I spin, but I feel a slap of impact against my side, as if I've been punched by a tiny fist. The sound of the gunshot registers a moment later. Still numb, I watch in fascination as the blood spreads outward—my blood, absorbing into the fabric of my shirt. Once it becomes too saturated, something that happens rather quickly, I note, the drops begin to spill down onto the floor of the dining room. I look up from this and see George Echo, holding a pistol from one of the guards, dark smoke still drifting up from its barrel. I try to lift the Desert Eagle from where my arm has fallen limp at my side, but the gun feels impossibly heavy. Instead, it feels much more comfortable to slide to the floor, leaning up against the booth. I use my free hand to push on the wound, trying to stanch it.

“Oh good, more blood,” is Mikey's response to the moment.

“What's power worth anymore? I couldn't find a single
friend
willing to bring dynamite, let alone come out and get us,” George tells his son, disgusted, and then notices the cocaine. “Put that shit away.” He keeps the gun trained on me, watching. “That stuff will kill you.”

Mikey stands, abandoning his coke and then sees me, seated, grasping my side and squats down to join me. “I tried to be too dramatic with this one,” Mikey admits, humbled. “I should have just stuck to the basics—drug you and drop you off Mulholland.”

“I agree,” I gasp, pained. “Much more pleasant.”

“Where's the girl? Since we can't get dynamite, we'll shoot her too,” George tells Mikey, but it might as well be to me, so preoccupied is his son with trying to stare directly into my eyes. Three quick pops sound from behind the senior producer as Ivy stands behind him, her own gun now wafting smoke. The dark red blood, much more visible on George Echo's linen suit, branches out from the trio of wounds on his chest.
Exit wounds
, I realize.
My bullet is still in me
.

Grimacing, the old man drops his own gun, which hits with a clank on the flooring and then he too falls forward onto his face. “Dad!” Mikey yells, momentarily shocked out of his high, and sees Ivy standing in his place, the gun in her hand spent.

“Too many bullets,” I chastise her, gritting my teeth to get the words out. “You still need one more.”

Mikey, assessing the situation, sees the golden pistol still in my hand. “You shot my dad,” he yells to Ivy and grabs for it, pulling it, attempting to loose it from my grasp. I don't have the strength on that side to fight him off, but I notice the gun is pointed at his face with my finger still on the trigger. His hands are on the barrel, pulling the gun away from me and toward himself. I fire, one last grand exertion from me. The big gun jerks painfully in my hand, impractical weapon that it is, but steadied by his hands on its undercarriage, finds its mark. The high-caliber bullet seems to ripple his face like a disrupted pond, forcing his dark skin to pucker first inward and then back out, spraying me with a thick misting of blood and exploded brain matter. The ceiling diagonally above his head gets the worst of it, thick lumps of jellied brain and skull are splashed across it, surrounding the hole where the big projectile continued up on through.