Richfield & Rivers Mystery Series 1 - Combust the Sun (17 page)

"What
kind of tea does Ms. Silvers drink?"

"Very
nice tea. Special kind, uh..." She searched for the name. "In here."
She tapped the little canister.

Callie
reached inside the canister and extracted a teabag. "Could I boil some
water and make a little of this?"

"I
make." Merika turned to get a teapot, and Callie held the stone up for me
to see. My eyes almost popped out of my head. In fact, I could barely contain
myself as the water boiled, the tea brewed, and Callie drank, making pleasant
conversation with Merika and grinning mischievously at me.

Half
an hour later we were back in the car, and I was bouncing up and down like a
kid at Christmas.

"How
did you know it was in the tea canister?" I said, comparing the two rocks
to see if they differed. Barrett's stone was much smoother than the stone Frank
Anthony had kept for himself.

"I
had this uncontrollable urge to drink the tea at Waterston Evers's house, so I
knew there was something else going on, because I would never drink tea in a
house as dirty as his, so I knew the tea was connected to the stone in some
way. Where are you going to keep these stones?"

I
pulled my shirt open and dropped one stone into each side of my bra. Callie
shot me a look.

"Can
you think of a safer place?" I smirked. "No one's looked there lately."
Callie put her hand inside my bra and my nipples hardened.

"Really?"
she said. "I guess we'll have to do something about that."

"As
much as I hate to say it, stop it," I moaned and Callie laughed.

I
asked Callie to thumb through the pages in Barrett's date book and see if there
was anything that would help us. After much searching, she found a page on
which Barrett had scribbled a 213 area code and a seven-digit number alongside
the words
pick up/deliver/Benny Kaye.

I
picked up the cell phone and dialed the number. A rough voice answered,
"Bono's!" I asked the man what kind of shop this was, and he replied
curtly, "Who wants to know?"

"We're
a delivery service, and we're sending someone over to pick up an order. We need
an address."

"Hollywood
and Vine," the man growled and hung up on me.

"It's
not Benny Kaye's phone number, but definitely a place his friends shop for
him," I said.

"I
don't want to go to some sleazy store on Hollywood Boulevard in the middle of
the night!" Callie said emphatically.

"We
don't have to go in, but this might be our first tangible proof of Marathon's
barter deals with their stars. Something's being picked up there, and I'd love
to know what it is."

"We
could go by Bono's tomorrow," Callie offered, leaning back against the
headrest and looking highly seductive, but I was already driving west on
Hollywood Boulevard.

"Stop
trying to distract me from my work." I grinned at her.

An
array of street people and addicts could be seen crawling out of their daytime
hideaways to prowl through alleys piled high with dirty rags and bottles, their
grocery carts brimming over with the treasures they'd collected.

I
looked out the car window at a barefooted black man, an army blanket pulled up
around him, swearing at an imaginary enemy from his bus bench. A woman
somewhere between sixty and death walked aimlessly out into the street in front
of our car. She was wearing red house slippers with big fuzzy balls on the end
of them, and four layers of clothing, her red hair sprouting out of her
turbaned headgear like spring onions. I glanced over at Callie, who was pale
and silent.

"I
can't stand to look at this," she said quietly.

"You
can't save everyone."

"I
wouldn't try. We choose our life, and it's ours for whatever reason."

I
was incredulous that Callie could believe people actually chose to live this
way.

"Well,
if everything's predestined, then there's no point in trying to change our
lives," I replied.

"We
have the power to change everything if we believe we can." Her voice
seemed self-condemning.

"Makes
no sense to me," I said. "But if what you say is true, then you chose
this trip to the slums this evening."

"No,
you chose this trip. I chose to follow you, and right now I don't feel good
about it. "

I
slowed up in front of a sleazy storefront with homemade lettering above the
door spelling out "Bono's." There were no parking spaces available,
so I had to drive around the block, which gave us a close-up look at the city
side streets where drug deals were taking place out in the open. An old man was
shooting a syringe into his dirty arm in full view of anyone driving by. I
opened the car door.

"I
thought you said we weren't going in!" Callie's voice registered alarm.

"Cops
patrol this area all the time. Come on, two minutes," I said, and she
jumped out of the car and followed me into the store where filthy inflatable
blowup dolls with plastic holes for vaginas hung from the ceiling by a string.
The wooden bins lining the walls contained boxes of dildos, edible fantasy
fragrances, and large leather straps with little metal brads embedded in them.
A middle-aged man with a three-day beard looked up and gave Callie an
appreciative whistle.

"Honey,
take it from Bono, you could be a star," he said, poking a dirt-encrusted
fingernail in her direction. Callie pulled back from the offending digit as if
stung by it.

"Marathon
Studios pickup," I said flatly.

"You
called earlier," he said. "Nobody ordered nothin'."

"Maybe
it's under a different name." I turned his grimy order book around so I
could see the names. He promptly turned the book back in his direction and
flipped to earlier pages. "Last order picked up by...Barnett..." He
struggled to decipher the name, but I recognized it immediately as Barrett's
scribbled signature. He looked up. "So what do you need? Leather body
harness, inflatable dolls..." His eyes never left mine. "Rainin'
outside?"

Rainin'...
The gears suddenly meshed in my mind.
Rain, sleet... snow. Benny Kaye is a coke head.

"No
rain...snow maybe," I gave him a resolute stare. Callie watched us as if
we were crazy, and we were. Him for having it and me for asking.

Bono
reached under the countertop, maintaining eye contact.

"We
need to go, Tee," Callie whispered with desperation in her voice.

Bono
pulled out a small plastic bag containing white powder.

"Put
it on the tab," I said and reached for the package.

He
gave a low laugh in appreciation of my bravado and pulled a gun from beneath
the counter. "You ain't from Marathon. Into the back room!" he
ordered. I glanced over at Callie. This was an undesirable turn of events, and
definitely the wrong part of town in which to be towed into a back room at
gunpoint. I glanced back at the door, praying some sleazeball customer would
come in long enough to distract Bono, but no such luck. My mind flashed on my
gun, which was safely locked in my car. Bono, his pants dangling off his skinny
behind and his faded blue and white plaid shirt pungent with body odor, herded
us into a closet so small that, side by side, neither of us could get our hands
up above our waist. The floor was painted brown and smelled of urine. The wall,
two inches from my face, had a variety of fluid stains dripping from it, colors
I could see even in the dark.

"Shit,"
was all I could say, my heart pounding.

Outside
we could hear Bono talking to someone on the phone, his voice raspy and hushed
but still loud enough for us to hear. He was telling someone that we'd tried to
pass ourselves off as Marathon employees. I was pretty certain it wasn't the
police he was calling.

I
asked Callie what she had on her, in her purse or in her pockets. "Just
give me a running inventory," I said nervously.

"Keys,
fingernail file, handkerchief?"

"Try
to reach the file."

The
next five minutes were spent wiggling around trying to get inside her purse
and, purely by feel, to locate the file without dropping it to the floor. She
passed it to me between her third and fourth fingers, and I got a frantic grip
on it. I maneuvered myself over to the lock, sucked in my breath, and yanked my
arm up, nearly dislocating my shoulder. My eyes were getting used to the dark,
and I could see that the inside edge of the dirty, wooden door was chewed and
clawed, as if others had tried to make their way out of this closet. If I could
just wedge the file in between the latch and the battered wall, I might be able
to pull the door open. I made a few quiet attempts, but the lock was sturdier
than I'd originally thought.

"Fuck."
I rested a moment.

Bono
was at the door, his mouth pressed against it. I could smell his beer-stale
breath even through the hairline crack. "He's sendin' someone who'll put
the fear of God in you, believe me. Marathon don't fuck around."

I
waited until he moved away from the door, and I could hear him busily
straightening up the counter and opening the cash drawer as if holding people
against their will were routine. It was five, ten minutes at the most, and the
front door of Bono's shop swung open with such force that the bell at the top
clanged in distress. Within seconds our door was unlocked and a man yanked
Callie out by her shirtfront, banging her head on the door jam.

"Don't
hurt her, you fuckhead!" I yelled.

"Teague!"
Callie's warning came too late as another goon dragged us across the store,
through the grimy front doors, and out into the street, where we were thrown
into the backseat of a waiting car. The man behind the wheel sped away with us
as his partner leaned over the front seat and pointed a gun at us. I realized
this could easily be our last trip anywhere with our hearts still beating.

"Who
are you and where are you taking us?" I demanded. The man in the front
seat leaned forward and pressed the silver metal gun barrel into my forehead,
the universal symbol for shut up. We were headed west toward the ocean, not a
good sign.
They must be thinking of drowning us or dumping us along the
forested coastline.
My mind was about to crash from overload. Should I make
a stand now, or wait until I had more maneuvering room?
If I make a move
now, maybe I can cause them to wreck the car and get somebody's attention,
rather than have to face them alone on the beach or in the woods.
I clasped
Callie's small hand in mine, sorry I had ever endangered her life and wanting only
to get out of this mess and be with her.

Suddenly,
the car swerved right, through the gates of Bel-Air, moving swiftly through the
streets the wealthy called home. I felt relieved. Dying in a nice neighborhood seemed
preferable to dying in a remote area.

The
driver swerved again, this time into a large rear driveway of a palatial
two-story mansion. The driver got out, leaving the door ajar, and rang the
bell. Our captor spoke to someone who was apparently irritated that we'd been
brought here. There was more murmuring and muttering, and finally the two men
dragged us both out, holding us by the napes of our necks as a mother dog would
drag small pups. I decided to find out who we were meeting before I created a stir.

Inside,
we were taken to a cozy den with a fireplace and a small leather couch facing
two chairs across a teak coffee table. A fire blazed in the fireplace, throwing
odd shadows all around the room. Things were looking a lot less violent and
decidedly upscale. I tried to steady my breathing. The men deposited us on the
sofa, side by side, and backed away, guarding the door. Callie and I exchanged
glances, wondering who would appear next. Moments later, Robert Isaacs in a
velvet dinner jacket, looking like a Hollywood leading man, strolled into the
room, his brow knitted together over the dilemma in his den. He stopped short and
then gave an odd smile.

"Well,
hello, Callie. Why am I not surprised to see you?" he said.

"Hello,
Robert," she replied.

"You
two know each other?" My breath was faster now.

"Intimately,"
Isaacs said. "We were married for ten minutes, isn't that right,
Callie?"

I
looked at Callie in utter shock, but she didn't look back.

"I
heard you were traveling with Ms. Richfield. Another in a long line of your
girls." And he grinned at the pain he was inflicting on both of us.

"And
which of your thugs told you that?" Callie asked coldly.

He
moved closer to examine the large, bloody bump on Callie's forehead. "I
see someone has managed to strike you in the head. Are they still living?"
he asked slyly. Callie ignored my incredulous stares in her direction. Isaacs
waved off the guards, asking them to simply keep an eye out at the entrances
while he talked to us. He offered us a glass of wine and assured us that, in
spite of the dangerous-looking men who had delivered us to him, we were in no
danger.