planned to drive on by and try again some other night.
Gordo stopped at a battered, boarded up liquor store near the freeway. Bone pulled to the curb and waited. Gordo stayed in the car while one of his bodyguards went inside to buy a fifth of Tequila and a couple of six packs of bottled beer. The Beemers kept driving. Bone discreetly followed.
The neighborhood turned into large chunks of undeveloped land or decaying wooden crack houses with dying grass around them. Tall succulent plants grew everywhere; the world was darkness, shadows, splintered boards and phallic, spiked undergrowth.
The cars finally slowed. They ended up driving onto a large piece of what looked like horse property. There were two houses. The one out front had men camped at the windows, but they seemed drunk and careless. The cars headed for the back house. At first glance, it was another dump.
Bone left his Mustang and slipped into the bushes. He used his field glasses. The windows were clear and clean. Inside, he could see decent furniture, paintings, and a large-screen, high-def TV.
The black guys collected some cash and left together in one of the BMWs. Maybe their shift was over, or they were hired for show. Either way, the odds had just improved. Bone eyeballed the property. No signs of an alarm, and the only guards seemed to be in the front house. He had to get closer. A long, wooden rail fence wove in and out of thick ivy that offered the only decent cover. Bone went flat and started crawling at a steady, patient pace.
It took an hour, but by the time Gordo closed the thick curtains Bud Stone was squatting right outside the side door, picking the lock. He eased inside and sat there on the kitchen floor, alone in the dark, scared and excited at the same time. Listened. Someone said something and a woman giggled. Wait . Another. There were two women. But was that it? Would Gordo allow himself to be so careless?
Bone forced himself to wait, and a few minutes later heard coughing. There was at least one other man, on watch in the living room, probably smoking a cigarette. Bone crawled into the hall. The living room was two doorways away and the lights were on; the big TV fired colored shapes at the wall. He crawled closer to one of the doors, heard nothing. Peered inside and looked up. Someone fast asleep in a bed, one foot half on the floor. The guy was out cold and snoring.
Bone choked him out, tied and gagged him.
My friend moved on and soon heard what sounded like a bad horror film coming from the next doorway. He crawled again, froze when a floorboard squeaked. After a time, he continued forward and peeked into what he could now see was the master bedroom.
The television was on there as well, lots of screaming and grunting and blows. The two women had finished ministering to Gordo and were sharing a joint. The big man was naked, seemed inert. Bone waited until the girls passed out, too. His bladder ached, but he ignored it and edged toward the living room.
The other guard, a squat and muscular Latino with oily hair, was parked on a black leather couch, AK by his side, watching an old war movie with the sound way too high. Almost too easy . Bone got to his feet, stepped over quietly, choked and tied him up and grabbed the rifle.
Back to the bedroom. One of the girls, a hooker improbably named Angel, woke up to a hand over her mouth. The man standing over her had pantyhose over his face, and his features were mashed and distorted. He looked like something out of the film they'd all been watching; one of those bloody productions Gordo was famous for creating. The man held a finger to his lips and showed her the rifle. He motioned for her to wake up her friend, a cocaine whore more aptly named Candy.
"Be quiet," the stranger said in a menacing whisper. "I'm not going to hurt you. Gordo is the one I want."
Bone marched the two naked girls down the hall and locked them in the bathroom. Then he returned to the bedroom, found a chair and sat
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