The Death and Life of Bobby Z Page 6

  Gruzsa didn’t mind paying for the Madame Tussaud job, he just didn’t want to actually see it. Especially after the undertaker had called him to proudly announce that he had even cosmetically recreated Escobar’s acne, for chrissakes.

  Gruzsa hates beaner funerals, too. Too fucking emotional, with the mother and the sisters and the aunts wailing and the men—half of Escobar’s male relatives are Mexican Mafia anyway—standing around pledging revenge. And they’d do a full mass, too, then the drive out to the cemetery and … Gruzsa’s been to any number of Mexican funerals: it comes with the job in this part of the country.

  So Gruzsa is trying to drink away the thought of the wake and the funeral and he’s also very pissed at one Tim Kearney, career criminal and monumental fuck-up who has tennis-shoed it, leaving Art Moreno hanging and Tad Gruzsa in the deep shit.

  Won’t be easy to explain this mess to the suits back in Washington who don’t understand just how complicated the business can get on the Left Coast. Sooner or later, Gruzsa broods, they’re going to start asking just why it is that I keep losing beaners. First Art Moreno kidnapped and now Jorge Escobar splattered all over the old arroyo.

  What can I say? Gruzsa mused. Life is a dangerous proposition for a beaner on the border.

  Tim Kearney is another story. It’s one thing to spring a three-time loser from the joint if you get results, another thing entirely to loose a career criminal on society and have nothing left in your hand but your dick.

  Tim Kearney running around could fuck up all sorts of things, Gruzsa thinks. I’m just going to have to locate the skell and make him live up to his part of the bargain and that’s all there is to it.

  It just wouldn’t do to have Tim Kearney running around shooting his mouth off. Tim Kearney’s only useful role in life was to get himself dead.

  Gruzsa polishes off his drink and knocks on the bar to order another. It arrives as an enormous mass of man in leathers plops onto the stool beside him.

  “Hello, fuckwad,” Gruzsa says. “How’s the meth business?”

  “I don’t even want to be seen with you,” the biker says. “Never mind exchange pleasantries.”

  “What? You think I’m thrilled?”

  “What do you want?”

  Gruzsa orders the biker a beer and says, “The guy who did your brother?”

  Gruzsa sees he’s got Boom-Boom’s interest. Boom-Boom is like six-seven, about three-twenty and has mouse-brown hair down to his ass. The book on Boom-Boom is that he doesn’t like to fight. Fists, knives or guns, Boom-Boom would rather take a pass.

  What Boom-Boom likes is blowing people up.

  Hence the name.

  Now Boom-Boom’s got a gleam in his eye.

  “Kearney?” he asks.

  “That the guy who killed your brother?”

  “Tim Kearney murdered Stinkdog.”

  “Then that’s who I’m talking about,” Gruzsa says.

  “What about him?”

  “You been looking for him.”

  Boom-Boom doesn’t answer. No point in wasting air on the obvious.

  Gruzsa says, “You been searching the system for him, but you ain’t found him. It’s like he disappeared, right?”

  “Figured he was stowed away out-of-state,” Boom-Boom answers. “We’ll find him.”

  Gruzsa shakes his head. “I cut him loose.”

  Gruzsa enjoys the surprise on Boom-Boom’s fat stupid face as the biker asks, “Why’d you do that?”

  And Gruzsa can’t resist answering, “Because we were so thrilled with him greasing your trailer-trash brother.”

  Sees Boom-Boom’s hand tighten around the neck of the beer bottle and adds, “You don’t have the balls, Boom-Boom. Maybe you’d leave a package under my car and sneak away in the dark, but you don’t have the balls to do me to my face.”

  Boom-Boom’s hand loosens and he lifts the bottle to his lips. When he finishes the beer, he asks, “Why you telling me this?”

  “Like the TV commercial,” Gruzsa says. “Why ask why?”

  “Cuz you could be setting me up.”

  Gruzsa laughs. “I want to set you up, I could do it without sitting down with you. By the way, did you ever hear of a shower? You smell.”

  “Fuck you, Gruzsa.”

  “You can dream,” Gruzsa says. “Anyway, what I heard was that at Chino you were a catcher.”

  Boom-Boom looks at Gruzsa with a look that’s pure hatred, which is fine with Gruzsa because he likes his hatred straight up. Boom-Boom’s so mad Gruzsa figures what he heard about him is true, and Gruzsa laughs at the image.

  “I can do a car bomb so that it takes off just your legs,” Boom-Boom tells him, looking down at Gruzsa’s crotch.

  Gruzsa nods then hits him in the face with a chopping right hand. Can hear the cartilage in Boom-Boom’s nose crack under his fist.

  “We’re doing business doesn’t give you rights,” Gruzsa explains.

  Boom-Boom sits on the stool, his eyes watering and blood pouring out of his nose. But he doesn’t go out and he doesn’t go down. Gruzsa has to give it to him for that. Boom-Boom’s a tough stupid son of a bitch.

  The bartender’s suddenly very busy counting the till and developing selective amnesia. Bar sells more meth than booze, anyway, so you ain’t gonna see no videotape of this cop smacking a skell. This is all between grownups.

  “Let’s just say somebody drops off Kearney in a body bag,” Gruzsa says, “I’m just going to figure it was Santa Claus and leave it at that.”

  Boom-Boom nods and wipes the blood onto his sleeve.

  Gruzsa adds, “Soon.”

  “We want him worse than you do.”

  “I were you, I’d start looking down around the border,” Gruzsa says. He slides off the stool and leaves a twenty on the bar. “Don’t bother to thank me. My work is its own reward.”

  “Fuck you.”

  But it has a nasal twang this time.

  Gruzsa leaves the bar feeling better than he has all day.

  13.

  Tim finds his way to Brian’s room, sneaks open the door and sees Brian fixing himself up a speedball. Brian’s Italian boy is naked, stretched out on the floor, propped up on one elbow, watching.

  The room smells of incense and hashish.

  Tim walks in.

  “Z!” Brian squeals. “An unexpected pleasure!”

  Tim looks at the Italian boy and says, “Is it cool if Brian and I have a private moment?”

  The boy looks hesitant, but Brian says, “Run along.”

  When they’re alone, Brian says, “Did Elizabeth find you? You smell like fucking.”

  Tim nods at the syringe and says, “Can I help you?”

  “An honor.”

  Tim fiddles with the syringe as Brian ties off. When he sees a vein pop up nice and thick, Tim squeezes all the fluid out of the syringe and jams the needle into Brian’s arm.

  Brian’s eyes bulge in fear.

  “What the fuck—” he says, his teeth still clamped on the rubber hose.

  “That’s right, Bri,” Tim says. “A fat syringe of pure air. I push the plunger here and an air bubble goes zinging right up to your heart and … bang. Instant massive coronary.”

  “Why—”

  “Look into my eyes, fuckwad,” Tim says with a confidence he doesn’t feel. “I’m Bobby Z and I’ll know if you’re lying. You know that, don’t you?”

  Brian nods. His face is red and Tim’s afraid he might have a heart attack anyway.

  “So what’s up, Brian?” Tim asks.

  “What’s up?” Brian squeaks.

  “Yeah, what’s up with you and Don Huertero?” Tim asks. “What’s the big hidalgo have in mind for me? And don’t give me any more bullshit about the big meth deal, Brian, because I know that was just candy to keep me fat and happy while you set me up, right?”

  Sweat’s popping out of every fat pore in Brian’s face.

  “Right?” Tim asks. He pushes the needle in a little deeper.


  Brian says, “We can make a deal, Z.”

  “The deal is you’re going to tell me right now or your heart’s going to explode like an M-80 in a trash can,” Tim says.

  A common way for guys to go in the joint, Tim recalls. No muss, no fuss, and the guards can say that another junkie con OD’d.

  “Death is just another trip,” Brian says, trying to bluff.

  “Well, adiós, my friend,” Tim says.

  He starts to press the plunger.

  Brian’s arm jumps, his eyes about pop out of their fat, and he says, “Don Huertero wants to kill you himself.”

  “Is that why he traded Moreno for me?”

  “I guess.”

  “Keep talking.”

  “He’s coming this weekend,” Brian gushes. “Talked about putting you on a spit and roasting you over a fire.”

  Swell, Tim thinks.

  “Why?”

  “Why?” Brian asks. He giggles. “Don Huertero doesn’t tell ‘why.’ He tells ‘what.’ ”

  “You don’t know what his beef is?!” Tim asks.

  “Just that you took something from him.”

  “What?!”

  “I don’t know, Z.” Brian starts crying now. “I don’t. He just said you took his treasure.”

  “His treasure?” Tim asks. “The fuck is he? Long John Silver?”

  “Come on, Bobby,” Brian whines. “We’re friends.”

  “But you were going to just hand me over, right?”

  “I didn’t have a choice.”

  Yeah, Tim thinks. He wants to press the plunger but doesn’t. He asks, “You have a gun in here, Brian?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t lie to me. I don’t like it.”

  “Desk,” Brian says. “Top drawer.”

  Tim pulls out the needle. Brian slumps to the floor and sits there crying while Tim gets the gun from the drawer. It’s a 9mm automatic. Tim would have preferred a service .45, but it’ll have to do. Tim also finds a money clip with cash, and he puts both in his pocket.

  Because cash is always in good taste and you never know when you’ll need a piece.

  “Tell Don Huertero gracias but no gracias, Brian,” Tim says. “I’m checking out now.”

  And Tim knows he’s being like stupid—he ought to whack Brian or at least take him along as a hostage—but he’s just like sick of this shit, sick of these people, and all he really wants to do is walk away from here alone.

  I mean fuck, he thinks. A kid, an old girlfriend, some fucking Mexican thinks he’s god wants to cook me over a fire. I mean, fuck this shit. Fuck Bobby Z.

  So he even knows he’s fucking up massively—what’s new—but he just takes the gun and walks back to his room and starts to throw a few clothes together. Khaki L.L. Bean shirt, jeans, denim jacket, Doc Martens. He grabs a couple of bottles of Evian from his little fridge and shoves them in his pockets.

  Then he pulls the gun and walks out into the compound. Nobody’s called the dogs out yet—Brian’s probably still changing his underwear—so it’s cool so far.

  The night is desert warm. Soft and inky black. The stars look so close you could kiss them.

  Tim wants to. He’s wild now. Really free for the first time maybe ever.

  There’s a guard at the Beau Geste gate.

  “Coming through,” Tim says.

  The guard starts to go for his own gun, but Tim’s smiling like a loco and the guard figures it ain’t worth dying for. He drops his gun and pushes a button and the gate swings open.

  Tim steps through into the outer compound, and now he can hear a commotion behind him. Fucking alarm going off and he reminds himself not to trip over any lawn sprinklers and now they’re all coming.

  He hears Brian running along the parapet screeching, “Stop him! Stop him!” but Brian’s a moron because he’s also yelling, “Don’t kill him! Don’t kill him!” so the guards don’t know what the hell they’re supposed to do.

  “Don’t stickin’ move!” Tim yells. “This is a fuck-up!”

  He laughs like a crazy bastard and looks back up at the parapet and there’s Brian running back and forth screeching and Elizabeth just standing there watching.

  And that’s truly cool but Tim doesn’t know how the fuck he’s going to get through the main gate, and now he realizes that they don’t have to shoot him, they only have to keep him in the compound.

  Which is when he spots the truck and that gives him a bunch of ideas.

  He walks over and lets three rounds loose, which gets everyone’s head down, and it takes him maybe five seconds to hot-wire the truck. He steers for the gate and there’s Johnson standing there in his boxers looking sleepy and irritable with a Winchester in his hands.

  “Where do you think you’re going, son?” he drawls.

  “Out there,” Tim answers.

  “Ain’t nothing out there,” Johnson says.

  “That’s what I like about it.”

  Johnson just shakes his head and says, “Well, I can’t let you go.”

  “You’re not going to shoot me.”

  “I don’t have to.”

  Johnson’s raising the rifle to shoot out the tires when Tim points the 9mm at him.

  Johnson smiles. “You ain’t the type.”

  So Tim squeezes one right past his ear. Johnson hits the deck and that gives Tim time to put the truck in reverse and get himself some room. Then he fucking stands on the gas and heads toward the gate.

  Johnson’s trying to get a shot from the old prone position but now he’s too busy rolling out of the way, and the guards are jumping clear of the gate and Brian’s screaming and Tim can feel Elizabeth smiling as he rams through the gate, and he’s free and clear.

  Except he sees the kid.

  Sees the kid in the rearview mirror. Just standing there in the outer compound looking at the back of the truck. Looking real sad.

  And Tim’s thinking fuck it, man, it ain’t my kid.

  But his foot hits the brake anyway, and he’s telling himself, You’re free and clear, man. Take your shot. You’ll never make it with a kid in tow. No way.

  “Fuck it,” he says to himself, and steps on the gas.

  And he’s still thinking fuck it as he puts the truck in reverse and the kid starts trotting toward him. Trotting and then running as he sees the truck coming back. Little legs pumping it out, man, and Tim can see Brian’s boys scrambling for their wheels and Johnson’s standing there, but even he’s not going to try to shoot over the kid.

  Tim stops the truck and opens the door.

  The kid stops running and just stands there looking at him.

  Of course, Tim thinks. Of fucking course.

  “You wanna come?” he asks the kid.

  “Yes.”

  “Shit, come on.”

  He reaches down and scoops the boy up and sets him in the passenger seat. He shifts into first as the kid grabs the shoulder strap and clicks the buckle in.

  Tim is shoving the truck into third as the kid says, “You don’t have your seat belt on.”

  “Shut up,” Tim says.

  But he buckles up, then races into the desert night.

  14.

  He’s in a race he can’t win and he knows it.

  First, he doesn’t know where he is. Two, he doesn’t know where he’s going. Three, he’s driving a slow truck on a bad road. Four, he’s saddled with a kid. Five, the other side has a fleet of off-road vehicles. Six, he’s just a loser, that’s all. He figures there’s probably a seven and an eight but he’s too stupid to think of what they are.

  Okay, first things first, he tells himself. One: You don’t know where you are. Big deal. Two: You don’t know where you’re going. Well, that’s not exactly true. You know you’re heading off fucking Rancho Cervier. The road’s leading roughly north and it must connect with an east-west road that leads out of the park. Three: You’re driving a slow truck on a bad road … Okay, let’s skip to four. Four: You’re saddled with a kid … Okay, let’s skip t
o five: The other side has a fleet of off-road vehicles …

  He brakes the truck and turns off the engine.

  “What—” the kid starts to say.

  “Quiet, I want to listen.”

  “What for?”

  “Engine sounds.”

  “What for?”

  “Shut up,” Tim snaps, then adds, “I need your help. Be real quiet and see if you can tell how many different sounds there are. Can you count?”

  “I’m six years old,” the kid says with some annoyance.

  But he shuts up and starts to listen.

  So does Tim. What he hears is pretty interesting. He can hear a shitload of activity way the hell off to his left, roughly east, running parallel to him. In fact getting out ahead. The high-pitched whines of dune buggies. Maybe a couple of dirt bikes. Maybe six or seven vehicles total. Enough, anyway.

  Headed for the road junction, Tim thinks. Cut him off there.

  Okay, what’s behind me?

  Two, maybe three, dirt bikes, close. But not trying to catch up necessarily. Just herding me to the junction. Behind the dirt bikes, what? Maybe the fucking humvee.

  “Well?” he asks the kid.

  “Sounds like eighty-seven engines,” the kid says seriously.

  “I counted eighty-six,” Tim says, “but I think you’re probably right.”

  Tim starts the truck up again and stamps on the gas.

  “Your belt on tight?” he asks the kid.

  “Yes.”

  “Hold on.”

  Tim jerks the wheel to the right and the truck slides off the road. He keeps gunning the engine until the wheels spin in the sand.

  They’re waiting at the road junction? Tim thinks. Fuck ’em. Let ’em wait.

  Who do they think they’re dealing with, a fucking moron?

  He gets out of the truck, walks to the other side and pulls the kid out. Whispers, “We got a little surprise for these guys.”

  The kid’s grinning from ear to ear. Say “surprise” to a kid, it’s like saying “beer” to a sailor. Anyway, the kid’s into it.

  Kid nods and whispers, “Try to act nonchalant.”

  They climb into the back of the truck.

  Tim starts getting shit together, like quickly, because they don’t have a lot of time before the boys catch up. Someone who knows what he’s doing has thought things out, because the essential stuff is there. Tim takes a blanket, two bottles of sterilized water and a flashlight and shoves them into the compartment behind the dirt bike’s seat. Then he finds a fold-up shovel and sticks it under the bungee cord. Finds some wire, duct tape and other repair crap, and crams it in with the other stuff.