“Sorry, I shouldn’t have dragged you into this.”
“Fuck it, boss, comes with the job.” When he smiled, I saw he was missing a tooth and two others were chipped. “You get Anya?”
“No.” I couldn’t look him in the eye.
“Then what the hell are we waiting for. That white haired old fuck took her.” He was pulling on his shirt and hobbling for the door.
“You need a hospital, kid.”
“Fuck that, boss. What I need is to kill some Russians.” Stepping past the bloody mess in the kitchen, he spat on the dead body. A tarot card lay on the guy’s chest.
Mikayla met us on the way out with a filled army blanket slung over her shoulder like some dark version of Santa Claus. Gregor grunted and nodded his head at her.
“She’s with us,” I told him, and that was all he needed. I was stepping out the door when Mikayla grabbed my arm.
“What?”
She pointed down. A foot off the floor, a piece of fishing wire was drawn taut. It ran through an eyehook and to the pin of a hand grenade that she had strapped to a five gallon gas tank.
“You’ve been busy.”
“Had to do something while you two were playing dress up.”
“I like her, boss, she’s got balls.”
“Yes, she does.” Careful not to blow us up, I stepped out the door, the daylight blinding me for a moment. I almost tripped over Harry. He was curled onto his side. Bullets had stitched a line across his gut. His eyes stared up dully. Whatever he had deserved, I doubted it was to die in the hills of Chatsworth.
I helped Mikayla lift him into the Quonset hut. I tucked the near empty Four Roses bottle under his arm. Where he was going, I figured he’d need a drink.
CHAPTER 19
Gregor was stretched out in the back seat, head lolling, eyes closed. Mikayla sat beside me, her bundle on her lap. A thin electronic version of Queen’s We Will Rock You drifted into the car.
“Your blanket’s calling.”
“If I answer, they’ll know something is wrong.”
“Then don’t answer it.” We were treated to two more bars of Queen done badly before it clicked over to voice mail. Mikayla dropped the cell phone back into her pile of booty. At a quick glance, I could see wallets, a laptop, several manila folders, a watch and who knew what else. The woman was a scavenger, a vulture who survived off carrion. But who was I to judge. After loading Gregor into the car, I had gone back and collected all the guns and ammunition I could find. Her skill with a razor had blinded her to the fact that for where we were going, we would need firepower.
“Jesus H Christ, what happened to you?” Helen stood in the door of her Silver Lake hillside home.
“Ran into some folks who didn’t like the cut of our jib.”
“Goddamn it, Moses, don’t. This is way past funny, Ok? I write about vampires and gangsters for the WB, I don’t know how to… shit, Moses, shit.”
“Can we come in?”
“Yes, damn you, yes.”
Gregor stumbled under his own steam over to the sofa and dropped down. Helen looked him over, shaking her head. “He needs a doctor.”
“No he doesn’t,” Gregor said.
“The girls?” I asked.
“Downstairs, poor little things.” I nodded to Mikayla, who set down her bundle and headed for the stairs.
“No you don’t, not before you wash the blood off your hands and face. Those girls have seen enough horror shows for this lifetime.” She got Mikayla a towel and showed her to the bathroom. Coming back, she looked worried.
“Nice company you’re running with.”
“Where’s Peter?”
“Locked up in my office, typing, calling. I haven’t seen him take a bite or a crap since they got here.” Dark circles ringed her eyes. I wished I could make it all go away. I wished I had something to say, but I was all out of sorrys.
Peter’s head snapped up when I entered. His eyes were black pin points surrounded by red. The shades were drawn and the only light was from the computer screen. In a machine gun rant, he told me of the article he was writing. His editor was holding a front page slot for him. This was going to blow the fucking top off those slave dealing bastards. He was sure once the story broke, the state department would have to give the girls asylum. He had reached out to a woman from the Angel Coalition, and another from Stop The Slavery. They would help the girls get a fresh start.
When I gave him the laptop and files, told him about the Israeli connection, he leaned back, rubbing his eyes.
“This is big times ten, damn… Are you sure, Mossad? Rogue or not, doesn’t matter, right? They’re here on US soil. Big. Let me see, um, yeah.” He flipped open the laptop and hit a few keys. Then slammed it shut. “Fuck, encrypted, fuck. No worry, I know a guy knows a guy. Yeah, alright.” I left him poring over the manila folders.
The sound of Russian voices led me out onto the lower deck. The girls looked fresh and clean, and if not happy, at least human. Nika turned to me, in a large tee shirt and sweat pants she looked thirteen years old. I looked away.
“I am glad you did not die.” She craned her neck, looking up at me.
“The day’s young.”
“My sister, she is?”
“Soon. Trust me.” I ran back upstairs, bile backing into my throat. All I could see was my dick in her.
I left the girls to Mikayla, who was trying to find out if they knew anything that might help us track down the Russians. On the way over, we had cruised the West LA mansion only to find it empty and abandoned.
Upstairs, I found Gregor with a monstrous turkey sandwich in one hand and the stolen cell phone in the other.
“You want to reach out and talk to that Russian bastard?”
“You found his number?”
“Dumbfuck didn’t clear his voicemail. The old man sounded real pissed to hear you had made it back to LA.” Some of the color had returned to Gregor’s face. Son of a bitch looked like he might actually survive.
Ten minutes of dialing proved the Russians smarter than I had thought. The phones had all been disconnected. Peter’s contacts discovered squat, the numbers all linked to prepaid dump phones.
Uncle Manny hadn’t left his office. Gray stubble patches dotted his chin. He looked sunken and old as dirt. He showed no surprise when I stepped in.
“How many times do you think you can sell me out before I put one between your eyes?”
“You will do what you must, as I have.”
“I used to look up to you. When did you become such a pussy?”
“You get a family, build a life, care and feed it. You have nothing, you have no idea what you would do to keep it safe.”
“Sold your soul for the rose garden, huh? Fuck you, Manny. You don’t think I have shit I care about? I have a life, old man. I want it back.”
“I don’t think that this is possible.”
“Then we’re both fucked. Call the Russians, tell them I want out.”
“It won’t be easy.”
“Neither is dying. Make the call.”
Manny left a message at their drop line, he told them I was there and needed to speak to them. After that, we had nothing to do but wait. Any anger I had for the old man was gone, replaced with sadness.
Behind us, the strip club sat empty. The scent of lust, sold out rain checks and broken promises permeated the stained carpet and soiled booths. How many men had busted a nut in the lap room hoping to feel alive, only to leave more hollow then when they came in? How many girls traded their joy for cynicism, one buck at a time? Burn the fucker to the ground. The price paid for this shit was way too high.
The phone rang like a gunshot to my head. Manny played it straight. Told them I wanted out. Told them he thought I was finished, ready to deal.