Angel of Vengeance (8 page)

Long pause. “No,” she says softly, eyes in her lap.

“How do you expect me to help you find your sister if you won’t level with me?”

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I shouldn’t have lied.”

“Why did you?”

I wait. The smoke from our cigarettes mingles like spirits in the air.

“Because. Because I was ashamed,” she says, surprising me by meeting my eyes now. “I caught them together and even though I knew deep down what kind of man he was I took his side over hers. I was weak and scared of losing what I had with him so I blamed Raya.” She shakes her head, blows smoke, shrugs. “The fact that you gave your own sister the boot after your boyfriend raped her isn’t such an easy thing to tell a stranger in the first five minutes you’ve known him.”

A tear makes a break for her jaw-line, but Reesa catches it and bats it angrily away. I can’t tell if she’s mad at herself or the tear or me. Maybe all three. “Now look what you’ve gone and done.” She does her best to catch the other conspirators on the brink but there are too many for her and she gives up.

“I’m sorry. I just had to know.”

“Well, now you do.”

“I’m sorry,” I say again, taking my own stab at wiping away the tears. I don’t have any more luck than she did.

“You probably think I’m a horrible person to do something like that, don’t you?”

“No,” I say, meaning it. “You were a drug addict. Drug addicts do all kinds of things when they’re hooked that they aren’t proud of later. It goes with the territory.”

There is a glimmer of recognition in her eyes. “You sound like you know.”

“I know.” When the kiss comes it takes me by surprise. So much so that I pull away. A fact that surprises me even more than the kiss.

“What’s wrong? Don’t you like me, Mick?”

“Sure I like you,” I say. She has no idea.

“Well then?”

The statement sits like an unread contract between us. As tempted as I am to grab a pen and sign my name, I stand up instead. I’ve got rules about this sort of thing. A junkie like me can’t go breaking his rules. Bad things happen once that starts.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?” She pouts all cute and girlish.

“I’ve got rules.”

“What kind of rules?”

“About getting too involved.”

“Does that go for clients or for everyone?”

“Take your pick,” I say, looking around for where she put my hat. Why is it you can never find your goddamn hat when you’re in a hurry?

Reesa stands now and kittens up to me. Her fingers walk my tie. “Well, you know what I always say—”

“What’s that?” I ask, knowing I shouldn’t; knowing I’m just opening the door for her to wedge one of those perfect little size six feet in it.

“Rules are like hymens—made to be broken.” She grins, too cute for her own good. Too goddamn cute by half. My turn to smile.

“You always say that, huh?”

She shakes her head, making her red curls jingle and bounce. “Not really. First time.” She looks me deep in the eyes, and blows smoke as she stubs her butt out in her glass. “Well, I guess if you feel that strongly about it then a kiss goodbye is out of the question.”

I nod. “Completely.”

She raises her face to kiss me anyway, her lips opening like flower petals in bloom.

“I’ll mess your hair and makeup all up,” I warn, our mouths almost touching now.

“It wouldn’t be much worth doing if you didn’t.”

I grab hold of those curls and we kiss like an electric shock. Her mouth tastes of Scotch and smoke, which could be unpleasant but isn’t. I haven’t let myself get this close to a woman in ages because of my penchant for picking the wrong ones. Call it a knack. I am overwhelmed by fear and desire. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt either. Since I’ve felt much of anything. The numbness that comes with being undead isn’t just physical, it’s emotional too. Anger is the one exception. There always seems to be plenty of that on hand. Maybe it’s what makes us vampires capable of the things we’re made to do. I don’t know. What I do know is that right now with her I feel more alive than I have in longer than I care to consider.

“There, now that wasn’t so bad, was it?” she asks when we part.

I don’t trust myself to speak, so I just shake my head. I want more. Lots more, if you want to know the truth.

“Well, I’d ask you to stay, but I have a show to do in a half hour.”

“And I have a girl to find.” I locate my hat in plain sight on a low shelf and mash it on.

“How about if we get together later when we can take our time with things? I’m off tomorrow night.”

I open my mouth to say forget it, but what comes out sounds a whole lot more like “Sure”.

She grins playfully. “Your place or mine?”

“Better make it yours. I don’t have a bed.”

“You don’t? Then where do you sleep?”

“In a freezer,” I deadpan. She laughs. She thinks I’m joking. I let her keep thinking it. “Where’s your place at?”

Reesa moves toward the dressing blind at the back of the room, unknotting the red silk belt that holds the matching kimono in check as she goes. She stops beside it, turns back to me. Red silk puddles like blood at her feet. I try to keep my eyes polite, but sometimes they get fresh all on their own. This is one of those times.

Clad only in a smile brimming with mischief, she shrugs. “You’re a detective. Find me.”

I need a pay phone. I aim the Benz for Canter’s Deli. As I roll south down a car-barnacled Hollywood surface street an unchanging pair of headlights in the Benz’s rearview makes me think I’m being tailed again. I take a couple of turns out of my way just to be sure. Whoever is following me doesn’t know what the hell they’re doing. The tail is too obvious and amateurish even for cops. So then who? The possibilities are practically endless. I haven’t exactly been racking up acquaintances who would fall into the ‘new friend’ category just lately.

I take a right, then a quick left into a narrow alleyway that curls behind a set of overpriced condos. I pull in behind a brown dumpster and cut the lights. I don’t have to wait long before my tail—a familiar-looking ’77 Ford pick-up as it turns out—pulls in after me.

When I see he’s committed, I throw the Roadster into reverse and punch it, hoping I can get close enough to at least get a look at the driver. The white-wall tires smoke and squeal as the powerful engine drags me back the way I just came. Seeing me bearing down on him like the hammer of God, my tail panics, turns rabbit. A lot closer to the mouth of the alley than me, the pick-up manages to back out into the street before I’m even halfway there. Through the passenger-side window, I just catch a glimpse of a white male face and over-styled blond pompadour behind the wheel before the Ford lays rubber and peels away into the night.

Canter’s.

I park in the side lot, step over the bum that lies like a speed bump on the sidewalk out front, and shoulder my way through a pair of smudged glass doors.

I wave off the cute hostess who offers to seat me, and beeline it over to the pay phone. There I chase a quarter with a dime and hunt-and-peck out the number Vin gave me for Leroy Watkins.

He answers on the first ring, with a wary, “Who dis?”

“Leroy?”

“It’s
Leh-
roy.
Leh-
roy. Get it straight, fool.”

“Sorry, didn’t realize you were French.”

“French? I ain’t no motherfuckin’ French. I’m straight up red-blooded American, fool. Who is dis?”

“The name’s Mick. Mick Angel. I got your number from a mutual friend. Vin Prince?”

“Yeah, so? Whatchoo want?”

“I was hoping maybe we could do some business.”

“You want to do business? Man, I don’t even know you. You sound like a mufuckin’ cop.”

“I’m not a cop. I’m just a fella with some extra cash on his hands and no place to spend it. Vin thought maybe you could help me out.”

Silence on the line, then. “Gimme your number, fool. I call you back after I talk to Vin.”

“I’m at a pay phone. No number. How ’bout I call you back?”

“You ain’t got no cell phone? Everyone got a cell phone.”

“Not me.”

A derisive puff of air like you hear during a glaucoma exam crosses the line. “A’ight, fine. Gimme ten minutes, fool.”

“Right,” I say, responding to the guy’s natural salesmanship. I like him already.

We get off. I go sit at the counter and order a coffee—black—from the wrinkled blue-hair there.

“That’s a smart-looking suit,” she tells me as she pours it. “I wish more people of your generation dressed like you.”

I smile at her. I’m probably old enough to have banged her mother. Hell, maybe I did. I thank her and drink my coffee and wait. Then I get up and go call Leroy back.

“Who dis?”

“Who do you think?”

“Don’t get smart with me, mufucka. Who you think you be talkin’ to?”

“All right, sorry. It’s Mick again. So how ’bout it?”

“Yeah, you check out. Vin says you cool, you cool. You got a ride, Mr. No-cell-phone-having-mufucka, or you short one a them too?”

“I got a ride.”

“A’ight, where you be at?”

“Fairfax. You?”

“Don’t worry where I be at, fool. I’m rollin’. That all you need to know. That how I do.”

I sigh. “Fine. Great. S’now what?”

“I’m busy right now. You be outside a diner called Dolores smoking a cigarette in ninety minutes. I’ll roll by. If I like what I see, I’ll pick yo’ ass up. If I don’t like what I see, I keep on rollin’.”

“Fine. Where is it?”

“Sa-Mo Bouly, baby. Just west a the 405. Ninety minutes. Don’t be late. Leh-roy don’t like to wait.”

8

I
have some time to kill before meeting Leroy, so I head to the Blue Veil. If you’ve seen one strip club you’ve seen ’em all—streaked mirrors, loud music, greasy pole, flashing lights. The Blue Veil is no different—except maybe a little louder. And greasier.

The world behind the black glass doors is violently sexual. Except for the ever-shifting lights of the two dance stages the place is disturbingly dark in a way that you get the feeling is less about atmosphere and more about hiding the kind of stains that can only be seen with the help of a black light. The unmistakable scents of sweat and vanilla and menstruation fill the air. Semen too, but that goes without saying.

On the twin stages strippers stalk, crawl, and pace like caged wild animals, earning self-esteem a dollar at a time. The gawking men who ring them attempt to lure the predators to them with their stacks of ones, oblivious to the danger, until their wallets are attacked by ferocious bare tits and gaping g-string asses.

A sour-looking cocktail waitress with a face like an old catcher’s mitt leads me to a tall, beer-sticky table at the back. She asks what I want to drink like she has a thousand more important things to be doing other than her job. I try to be understanding. With a face like that I’d be sour too. I order a Scotch. Single malt. On the rocks.

When she comes back with it, I fat tip her with a twenty; tell her to keep the change. She smiles at me now. She likes me now. We’re good friends now.

“Let me ask you something,” I say, making use of the good will I’ve purchased. “I haven’t been here in a while, but I used to come in a lot and get dances from Dallas. She around tonight?”

“Just saw her. She’s getting changed.”

“Great. Would you tell her I’d like to see her?”

“Sure thing, hon,” she says, favoring me with a lemon-pucker smile as she moves off.

Time in the Blue Veil passes like time in prison. I should know. I listen to songs I don’t know and don’t get; songs that sink under the screeching nails-on-a-chalkboard weight of guitars. I drink. I smoke. I wait and wait some more.

“You wanted to talk to me?”

I tear my eyes away from the topless Asian girl writhing on stage to find an attractive bleached blonde with cold eyes and a dissatisfied mouth that looks made to complain standing at my side. Her skin looks very tan against the paleness of her silk bra and panties. She smiles at me, but it seems forced, like a grumpy TV cat that has been trained to do tricks against its nature.

“You must be Dallas.”

She nods, her face pretty despite its bitchiness. Or maybe because of it.

“Pull up a chair.”

With a sly grin she reaches out and fingers my tie. “Let’s discuss terms first.”

“There are terms?”

She nods again. “I’m at work. I can’t just sit around and talk all night. I’m here to make money.”

“I get it. How much will it cost me?”

“Same as a lap dance. Twenty a song.”

“Pretty steep just for a little conversation. I thought talk was supposed to be cheap.”

She shrugs. “Inflation. You want cheap, talk to one of the other bitches.”

I can’t help but notice the way her huge fake breasts strain against the sheer material of her bra. Then again why would I want to? “All right, why don’t we start with five songs.” I peel off one of Reesa’s hundreds and stick it to the table.

Dallas’s eyes go wide at the size of my roll. I can almost hear her brain clacking like an abacus, wondering how much she might be able to get me to part with and for what. She peels the bill from the table with a crackle and makes it disappear into her D-cup like a master magician.

Rewarding me with another Frigidaire smile, she sits on the chair next to mine and I’m reminded of Reesa taking her stool the night before. Dallas suffers by comparison. Though lean and muscular, her body lacks the fluid grace of Reesa’s soft curves. She looks gamey to me. Hard. For me, a night in the sack with her holds all the allure of a night spent humping a wooden post. A fella can get splinters that way.

“What’s your name?” she asks.

I tell her. Then I say, “So let me guess—you’re from Dallas, right?”

She shakes her head. “Fort Worth, but that didn’t have the same ring to it.”

I’m inclined to agree. She reaches out and traces one long fake nail along the outer rim of my ear. It’s intended to be seductive, but it just makes me want to scratch.

“You’re adorable, you know that?”

“I bet you say that to all the guys.”

“I do.” She shrugs. “But I mean it with you.”