Diabolical by Hank Schwaeble Page B

them and cared about them. People like that had something to lose, and people with something to lose usually left everyone else alone.
    He reminded himself that unlike them, he didn’t really have anything to lose. It wasn’t even his car.
    The sidewalks were mostly empty and there was very little traffic. Except for an elderly black man a few houses down watering a sprawl of chrysanthemums, nobody seemed to notice Hatcher as he walked up to the house and rang the doorbell.
    It was one of the nicer homes, and actually had a fairly uniform lawn. The walls were a powder-puff blue and the wooden porch was painted a gunmetal shade of gray to match the roof tiles. A good half-minute had passed before a black kid glaring out from beneath a do-rag answered. Short, maybe five foot two, but thickly muscled, wearing a tight shirt with long sleeves that was ribbed like thermal underwear. He stood behind a dense screen door with a fuck-do-you-want? sneer on his face.
    â€œI’m Hatcher.”
    The sneer flexed. “Yeah? So?”
    â€œI called. Was given this address.”
    â€œZat a fact? By who?”
    It was a good question, one Hatcher wished he could answer. The Carnates hadn’t exactly had a Yellow Pages ad, but he’d been able to find one entry for PI Escort Services on a web page dedicated to adult entertainment in the L.A. area. PI. That was how these half-human, half-demon women had referred to Pleasure Incarnate back in Manhattan, back when they were leading Hatcher around by the nose and setting him up for Valentine’s big finale. Unlike the other posts he’d seen, it didn’t promise GFE or PSE or erotic massages. It simply read, We’re No Angels .
    â€œBy the person I spoke to,” Hatcher said.
    â€œThe person you’s spoke to. Know what I think? I think you just another white boy come down to our hood looking to score some rock. Prob’ly knocking on random doors, thinking there’s got to be some brother on this street dealing, right?”
    Hatcher tried to get a read on the guy, figure out if the vibe he was giving off was for real, but the screen was too dark. The one thing he was relatively certain of was that do-rag wasn’t in the business of offering anything like a Girlfriend Experience or a Porn Star Experience. Then again, sometimes it was hard to tell.
    â€œGuess I have the wrong place.”
    â€œDamn right you do, racist motherfucker.”
    Hatcher smiled faintly and turned to leave. He’d only taken three steps when he heard the rack of a charging handle, freezing him in mid-stride.
    The voice from the doorway said, “Know what this is, bitch?”
    Careful not to move his head, Hatcher swept his eyes from one side to the other, scanning the street. His field of vision was relatively unimpeded, but it didn’t offer much consolation. The guy who’d been watering his flowers wasn’t there anymore. Nobody else seemed to be around, either. Everything was quiet.
    A bird chirped.
    â€œYou hear me, punk-ass white boy?”
    â€œIt’s an Ingram MAC-10. I’m guessing a nine-by-nineteen Luger, because a sawed-off runt like you couldn’t handle the kick of a forty-five.”
    â€œAww, idn’t that just the cutest. Whiteboy’s got a mouth on him.”
    Hatcher heard a jumble of footsteps, then the squeal of the screen door swinging open, people piling into the yard. He could make out at least three more weapons being cocked. He was pretty sure they were all pistols. At least four guys, at least four firearms. Not great odds.
    He was thinking about those odds, and the odds of going to a wrong address where the person who answers the door just happens to brandish an automatic weapon and just happens to have several armed friends with him, when one of them said, “Taze his ghost ass,” and he felt a twin set of stings in his back at almost the exact moment his entire body began to vibrate like a funny