In a post-coital lump we lay tangled on the floor. I gently traced the fairy tattooed on her backside. It was the same mark as the girl in the porn video. I never had the pleasure of seeing Kelly’s ass but I now doubted she was tattooed.
“Did Kell have any tattoos?” I said as casually as I could.
“Why do you want to talk about Kelly? Do you wish you had just fucked her?”
“No, I was…”
“I’m not Kelly, hell, Kelly wasn’t even Kelly. I’m here, I’m alive and I’m the best you’re ever going to get.” To prove it she started kissing my neck and moved slowly down my belly. My desire to question her dissolved when she took me into her mouth.
We woke to the sound of a knock at the door. I pulled my pants up and righted the dresser. Cass gave me a wink and slid into the bathroom. Gregor came in, looked around the room but asked no questions. Cass came out of the bathroom looking fresh as a new picked flower. “She’ll be riding with us tonight,” I told Gregor.
“It’s your party boss.”
“Then let’s roll.”
CHAPTER 17
As a kid, my grandmother Therkleson told me about the Valkyrie, beautiful bare-chested winged warriors who dropped down onto the Viking battlefields and picked the bravest of the fallen dead to take to live in the halls of Valhalla, where they could drink and fight and fuck until the end of time. In a hard world a good death was sometimes the best a man could hope for. That, and a big breasted chick with wings to swoop out of the sky.
Soaring down 280, I watched San Francisco disappear into the rear view like a glittering dream calling me back to bed. The highway was smooth and nicely banked, built for speed, I fought the urge to pin the needle and kept at a safe eighty miles an hour. The CHP might frown on rolling arsenals crowding up their highways.
I dropped in Give ‘em Enough Rope, by far the Clash’s best album. London Calling was for posers and Johnny come late to the party wanna’ be punk college kids. Melancholic Island influenced punk, with enough melody not to drive my traveling comrades screaming from the car and enough overdriven guitars to keep me from blowing my brains out. Mick Jones, that pussy, was telling me to step lightly and stay free when we hit Palo Alto. Taking the Sand Hill exit we headed up into the mountains. The streetlights disappeared and there were damn few homes as we snaked our way into the country. A warm blanket of black fell around us, pierced by our headlight beams. The stars filled the sky above, silhouetting old oak trees on the rolling hills.
“When this is over, I was thinking about going down to Mexico,” I said to Cass, she was resting her head on my shoulder. “I was thinking you might want to go with me.”
“What’s in Mexico?”
“Warm beaches, good food.”
“Ok.” We slipped back into silence. Gregor sat in the back with his fedora down over his eyes. Old La Honda Road twisted its way up the dark mountain, redwoods speared up into a forest above the road, cliffs dropped off to the right, so that one wrong turn would take you into the next life in a wailing plunge. A flash of white spread out in the headlights as a barn owl crossed our path. Tommy Cavasos told me that if you saw an owl in flight you should look away because it was a brujo, who could make you sick or cast a dark spell on you. Tommy swore by that border magic. I watched the owl fly up and disappear into the dark forest. What was it going to do to me I hadn’t already done to myself? Luck was for suckers, and magic was what that freak in the top hat did down on Hollywood Boulevard for turista quarters. I was done gambling in games where others set the rules, and all odds went to the house. From here on out I only wanted to play when I chose the deck and dealt the cards.
Twenty minutes later we hit Skylonda, a small mountain town consisting of a general store, two restaurants and a two pump gas station, they all were dark and silent at this early hour. I pulled in and used a payphone to call Sanders.
“You want Sabatini, get your ass up to his ranch.”
“What are you talking about, McGuire?” he mumbled into the phone.
“I’m dropping Sabatini in a package for you, but me and mine walk. No witness protection, no DA, no bullshit.”
“Who exactly do you think you are?” he said, waking quickly.
“The man who’s about to make you a hero,” I said and hung up.
Pulling out onto Skyline Boulevard, a two lane black top stretched out along the ridge of the mountains all the way to Santa Cruz, I switched The Clash out for Iggy and the Stooges. I nodded along to Search and Destroy, anger driven three chords of pure rage. Cass and Gregor were flicking glances that said the old man has lost his noodle and what was that god awful music? No sense of history, fuck ‘em. I needed the raw power jangle and Iggy knew how to deliver.
Breaking through the tree line we could see down rolling hills to the ocean on one side and all the way to Palo Alto and the bay beyond on the other. Twenty minutes later I spotted the address I was searching for. A tall iron gate blocked the entry, just inside it was a stone guard house. I checked my watch, I knew it would take Sanders at least an hour to assemble his troops and make the drive. I didn’t have much fear that he would call in the locals and give them a shot at his glory.
I parked around a bend in the road from the gate’s entrance. Looking over my two comrades, I thought about how good a drink would feel right about then.
“What’s the plan baby?” Cass had grown nervous as the reality of what we were about to undertake sank in.
“We go in, find Sabatini and try not to get too dead in the process.”
“What’s he look like?” Gregor said.
“Like the chief Greaseball, I figure we’ll know him when we see him. He’ll be the one giving orders.”
“I don’t mean any disrespect Moses, but the plan sucks,” Gregor said, not worried, just stating a fact.
“I know what he looks like,” Cass whispered. I looked at her stunned.
“How the hell do you know him?”
“It doesn’t matter.” She looked away, out the window.
“Only a little.”
“Why?” She looked back at me, innocent.
“Because it does. If I don’t get all the facts, I’m spinning this car around and going home,” I yelled.
“No you’re not.” She called my bluff. “They know your name.” Her voice was calm and her eyes had gone cold. “They won’t stop hunting you until you stop them.”
“She’s right boss,” Gregor spoke from the back seat.
“I know she is damn it. I just don’t know who she is!”
“I’m your girl and you are my man.” She softened, clasping her little hand around my three middle fingers, “I would never do anything to hurt you.” She caressed my hand focusing her attention down so she wouldn’t have to see my eyes if I rebuffed her. Who was I kidding, this wasn’t about her, or me, it was about Kelly and me setting my conscience to rest. I had killed the punk who killed her but the mouth breather who ordered it was still walking free.
“Ok, fuck it, let’s go bowling,” I said and fired up the Crown Vic. Fishtailing onto Skyline I let the V8 roar. Pushing hard, I was going ninety-five when I slammed into the gate. The iron snapped and bent around the hood, ripping from its post. I hit the brakes slamming it in reverse, smoking the tires. On the second hit the gate toppled off its hinges and fell to the side. A tall ape of a man in a tee-shirt jumped out of the guardhouse, aiming a pump shotgun at me. I locked up the brakes, pressing my.45 against the inside of my door, I tapped off three quick shots. They punched through the sheet metal of my door and into his gut. He fell, stumbling back into the guardhouse. I stomped on the gas and we flew down the twisting driveway. Around two bends and past a small pond lay a large two-story wood home. Six cars were parked on the circular drive. Half dressed men ran from the front door as we approached. The rhythmic rattle of automatic fire blasted as bullet holes punched into the Crown Vic’s body. I wrenched the wheel to the left sliding it sideways, blocking the exit. Bullets tore through the cab, ripping shredded holes into upholstery and sparking in the darkness.