High Bloods (15 page)

“I did hear Artie mutter something like ‘motherfuckers.’ Then, a little later he looked at me, or through me is more accurate, and said, ‘The only language greed knows is money. So okay, no eight-count. Go for the knockout.’ “

“Knock out who? Or what?”

“How would I know? I sort of edged out of his line of sight and left him sitting behind his desk, staring at a blowup of himself in the ring, with a mouse eye but with his gloves above his head, doing a little victory prance. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-five in that photo.”

“Dreams of glory,” I said. “Whatever he may have been planning this time, the opposition got wise and had him whiffed.”

“Yes,” Bea said with a stony expression. “I remember.”

During our ten-minute flight I outfitted Bea with a pair of digicam glasses and an earbud the brim of her hat concealed. Then I handed her a backstage pass to wear. She was more impressed by the pass than by the junior-detective rigging.

“Where did you get
this?
”

“We’re ILC,” I said. “Ask, and if ye do not receive, counterfeit something. But that pass is the real deal.”

“Why do we have so much company tonight?”

“To help me keep an eye on our boy. This gig was too important to his career for him to pass up, but afterward he might take a notion to dust. I don’t feel like being stood up again.”

“What do you want me to do, R?”

“Hang out with the rockers. Make friends, have a good time, and take a good look at anyone who comes within a few feet of our Bucky. Don’t fiddle with the glasses; it’s a giveaway. We’ll be receiving everything you look at.”

“How?”

“We have a tech van at the venue.”

“Oh. You really want to talk to him bad.”

“What I want is to nail Bucky’s skinny ass and as many others as he’ll cop to for conspiracy to commit murder.”

Her lips pursed for a whistle, but because of the whine of the turbine overhead I didn’t hear it. I did see a racing shadow of anxiety in her eyes.

“Where will you be, R?”

“Around,” I said, and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.

An earthquake snaking through Arroyo Seco a few years ago had heavily damaged the venerable Rose Bowl, particularly the stands on the Linda Vista Avenue side. That area was now a long grassy knoll. The part that had been salvageable was a thirty-five-thousand-seat arc preserving all of what had been the south end zone of the stadium. The stands had been refurbished as an
amphitheater. The stage was an elaborate three-tier affair. Behind the stage there was parking for support groups, limousines, tour buses, satellite uplink trucks, and a warren of hospitality tents. There were also five helo pads, most of them for the use of law enforcement agencies.

We flew in with a sunset spilling into low clouds behind us like lava from a volcano.

The stands appeared to be filled already. The highly desirable infield was packed, probably another three thousand fans who wanted to mosh. More of them were spread across the grassy knoll in the last red glow of daylight, picnicking, getting high. They paid much less than those within the amphitheater and could watch the acts on a jumbotron screen mounted on massive steel scaffolding at the southwest corner of the stage.

The band opening for Bucky and the trash goddess Chimera was already into its set. As Lew descended to a helicopter pad marked ILC we had a look at a scale model of the church for which they were raising money that was displayed on one side of the stage. The church was architecturally impressive and—I remembered Artie’s description of the fusion of Christianity with Lycanthropy—more entrepreneurial than religious.

There was a cable-suspended backdrop the width of the stage on which a tanned, athletic Jesus, wearing a white singlet with a gold cord at the waist and with His beard neatly trimmed, was surrounded by birds, both hawks and doves, and creatures of the wild—including, prominently, a wolf at His sandaled feet. Domestic variety. The right hand of Jesus was raised over the wolf’s head in a gesture of peace and friendship.

“It’s going to be a fun evening,” Beatrice said. But not as if she were entirely sure of that, or herself.

posted myself in the tech van where I could observe, on
feeds from amphitheater security, everything that went on at the sprawling venue and keep in touch with Beatrice as she prowled backstage and tried not to trip over anything.

A line of stretch limos, each about half a city block long and escorted by motorcycle cops, arrived. High-level EiE talent agents and clients unloaded, mingled, drifted into the white vinyl hospitality hives. Johnny Padre, wearing casual chic tonight, dressed like a comedy sailor from the chorus of
Pirates of Penzance
, was there with his twenty-one-year-old actress-wife, who made the description “stunning” sound like faint praise. The Padres and a few others of similar rank or god-quality stardom formed ranks and trooped around to the starbuses to stick their heads inside for the obligatory good wishes.

Backstage Beatrice encountered the Reverend A. A. Kingworthy, pastor of the First Church of Lycanthropy, and his entourage. He was waiting to say a few words of welcome and offer the invocation before the evening’s stellar attractions took stage. He smiled at Bea, liking what he saw, bowed slightly and called her “sister.”

When she moved away Bea whispered in my ear, “Is the Rev a Lycan?”

“No. He’s just a humble preacher with a love for all of God’s creatures and what they can contribute to his personal well-being.”

“You’re such a cynic.”

“Roger that. Over and out.”

I had a look at another limo arriving. Three beefers got out, then the Man himself—Bucky Spartacus’ mentor and, I presumed, confidant—Miles Brenta. Who turned to offer a helping hand to his female companion as she emerged.

I thought it was past time that I had a heart-to-heart with Brenta. And I didn’t mind the prospect of seeing Francesca Obregon again.

Two of the beefers converged when I approached within twenty feet of Miles Brenta, who had his back to me and his head down as he said something to Francesca. She saw me over his shoulder and her eyes got bigger, her full mouth twisting a little in irritation. Which prompted Brenta to look around.

I had to stop in my tracks or start kicking beefer butt, but because they undoubtedly carried Tasers my choice was clear enough. So all I did was wave cheerily to Francesca.

“Hey there, Fran! We seem to be running into each other all over the place!”

Miles Brenta glanced curiously at Francesca, who shrugged. I included him in my greeting.

“Rawson,” he acknowledged. He nodded to his beefers. “No problem. Let him come.”

They stepped aside and I made it a threesome alongside their limousine. Fran was dressed Mexican-peasant style, the Zapata era: a blouse with full sleeves that was laced, not tightly, at her breasts; a clingy midcalf cotton skirt made for twirling and whirling; and rope sandals. Brenta, a man some distance into his fifties who obviously took great care of his body, wore a black T-shirt and black jeans and a Greek fisherman’s cap. He was hard-boiled handsome with a somewhat liverish complexion and
he didn’t trim his graying eyebrows. He was one of those men who belong to money the way talons belong to a bird of prey.

Francesca was still annoyed. Brenta smiled thinly and said, “Where do you two know each other from?”

She drew a long breath but before she could speak I said, “I was visiting with her
abuelo
yesterday when she came cruising up to the home place on her Kraut Klipper.”

“Max Thursday’s house? More bother about that
mal de luner?
Old business, isn’t it?”

“Not as long as we may be looking at the prospect of another one soon.”

“Those things go on,” Brenta said quietly. “But you’ve met Max. He couldn’t have had anything to do with any of it.”

“I’ve told him as much already,” Fran said, a fist on her hip. One of these days she was going to take a swing at me. It was something to look forward to.

Although the windows of the stretch limo they’d stepped out of were tinted nearly full black, I noticed the flare of a cigarette lighter inside and had a glimpse of a long face, pale as a seed buried in a jar of jam. The window had been let down about an inch, as if someone were interested in hearing what we were talking about.

“Great turnout for Bucky’s big night,” I said, looking at the starry sky as I changed the subject. “For a while I was afraid he’d be a no-show.”

Brenta looked at me with fading patience but not as if I had touched a nerve. Fran was a lot more uneasy. The woman just did not have a knack for keeping her thoughts, or worries, to herself.

“Just what do you mean by that?” Brenta asked.

“Oh—I thought he might have told you.”

“No. I haven’t spoken to Bucky for a couple of days. So many business matters taking up far too much of my time.” He waited for me to explain. I wasn’t in a hurry.

“Congratulations, by the way. On the success of your LUMO. WEIRs received about three million of them so far, I’m told.”

Brenta nodded. “The honors belong to Francesca and her development team. I merely provide the financing. About Bucky—”

“He called me late last night. Sounded really broken up about his girlfriend. Another of your protégés, I believe.”

“Do you mean Chiclyn? Yes, they’ve been keeping steady company, as all the world must know. What about Chickie?” He stared at me without blinking.

“Seems to be missing. When did you see her last?”

Brenta turned to Francesca. “Friday night, wasn’t it? The party after we saw the rough cut of
Ghost Galleon?
”

“Umm,” Fran murmured, looking at me as if I had brought up a family curse.

“Why do you believe she’s missing?” Brenta said. “And what reason would Bucky have for contacting—”

“A Wolfer? I plan to ask him just that in a little while. I agreed to meet with him at Valdemar last night to find out what had him crying on the phone, who he was afraid of.”

“Afraid?” Brenta said, looking more wary then puzzled. Francesca started a turn of her hand toward the limo, then checked herself.

“But he didn’t show,” I said. “There was no one at Valdemar but my partner Sunny Chagrin. She was wrapped naked in razor wire and bleeding out on the terrace. I’ll be asking Bucky about that too.”

“
Dios mio!
” Francesca said. I’d upset her; it was either Bucky or the razor wire. Or both.

“Take it easy, Cesca,” Miles Brenta said, without sounding particularly annoyed. But the ice of his eyes seemed to have deepened as he studied me. “Are you alleging that Bucky had something to do with the murder of an ILC agent?”

“He asked me to meet him at the Valdemar estate. Then he
dusted, leaving a body behind. That’s topic A for an intensive interrogation, wouldn’t you think?”

“I assume that you recorded this conversation you say you had with Bucky.”

“No, sir.”

“Then I advise you, and Bucky’s legal counsel also would advise, that you not pursue this.”

“I wouldn’t have grounds,” I admitted, “if I couldn’t prove that Bucky met Chickie at de Sade’s early Monday morning. Surveillance cams showed them arguing heatedly. Shortly thereafter Chickie paid a visit to the ladies’ lounge, haired-up in a bathroom stall, climbed to the roof of the building, jumped through a skylight, and beheaded Artie Excalibur with one good chomp of her girlish jaws.”

I gave their reaction a three-count, then added: “I think Bucky knew it was going to happen, and why. Tonight he’s going to tell me about it.”

I made a fist below my belt buckle to indicate just where I had Bucky’s nutmuffins, and how tight, and walked away.

“Meantime, enjoy the show.”

Now and then I have this tendency to get a little cocky.

The opening band had finished its set. As I walked back to the ILC van the Reverend A. A. Kingworthy and his support group from local churches, including a gospel choir, were taking stage to a frenzied welcome from the crowd—most of whom, I supposed, were familiar with the Rev through his television ministry. Kingworthy was a veteran grifter who had learned his trade on the raise-’em-from-the-dead evangelical tent-show circuit, paying his dues in order to earn this exploitative shot at the Greater Glory.