Buey."
"You must learn to harden yourself, Ernesto. This man is a common thief, and worse still he betrayed my trust. This has broken my heart, and I demand retribution. Ortega?"
"Yes, Buey."
"Begin. No, wait. I have something else to say. Let me closer. Do you hear me, boy? One last thing, before I go. I know where your family lives, and I will get the other half of my money soon."
" Mmmph !"
"Oh, and your puta of a sister has already been raped and strangled. Rest assured that my money is on the way back to my pocket."
"Buey?"
"Why do you interrupt me, Ernesto?"
"I cannot stay, I feel sick. Can you not end this quickly?"
"Boy, Ernesto seems to like you, and you have told me at least part of the truth, yes?"
" Mmmph ."
"Well, unfortunately for you, I am not in a good mood. I hereby retract my initial offer. Ortega?"
"Yes."
"You may take as much time as you wish with this one."
" Gracias , Buey."
"Show patience. You must pace yourself, yes?"
"Oh, Buey . . ."
"Ernesto, do not weep. You may leave and prepare our lunch."
"Thank you, sir. Thank you."
"I will be along in due time, yes? Now, Ortega. Let us begin."
"Fingernails?"
"No, not this time, I think. We should warm him up first with the blow torch."
TWELVE
It has been said that there are many different ways to get to Bel Air, but the easiest is to make a lot of money. Jack Burke drove down White Oak Boulevard, with its rows of weathered, pastel houses, forced his way onto the Ventura Freeway for a few exits. He stayed in the right lanes, where cracked concrete jiggled and thumped beneath the tires, and eased over to the San Diego Freeway, moving south. The sky was a bruised purple with streaks of orange from LA's belligerent pollution.
Burke's mind was wandering, and he almost missed the exit for Sunset Boulevard. A hunched-over elderly man in a finned white Caddy was smoking defiantly and squinting into the taillights of the next vehicle. Burke honked, but the old man refused to yield. Gauging the distance perfectly, Burke floored it and shrieked into a space between cars that opened and closed in a nanosecond. The old man flipped him the finger. The ramp was backed up; Los Angeles traffic was gnarly virtually any time of the day, but in rush hour it was hideous.
Burke hung a left on Sunset and followed it to the overgrown, half-shielded entrance to an exclusive, gated community. He left the main street, followed the winding drive and finally rolled up to a freshly painted guard shack. The rent-a-cop was a buff, blue-eyed kid with steroid pimples. He leaned out of the window and eyed Burke with a practiced gaze intended to intimidate.
"My name is Burke. Nicole Stryker left my name."
The kid made a show of searching his clipboard. He seemed disappointed when he discovered the name was listed. He nodded grudgingly, reached toward the car with one large hand. "Need to see a photo ID, sir."
Burke debated and then handed over his legitimate license, rather than one of the forgeries he has tucked away in the glove compartment. The extras were there to provide him with different first names—also with his last name spelled as Birk, Berk, or Burk. His eye color was different in some photographs, the same in others; a number of the licenses claimed he wore glasses or was subject to seizures when not on medication.
"Have you been here before, Mr. Burke?"
"No."
The kid leaned on the car. His breath reeked of garlic. "You take a right on Bellefontaine, go maybe two hundred yards until you get to Bogart Drive. Turn left on Bogart all the way to the top of the hill, maybe half a mile. You'll see a fork in the road. Take the left fork onto Warner Drive, and the house is the first one on the right side, you can't miss the gate."
"Thanks." Burke started the car. The kid was looking at him as if about to say something. Burke didn't want the police or anyone else interrupting. "In case you're wondering, I know he's dead. Nicole asked me to come up and
"You must learn to harden yourself, Ernesto. This man is a common thief, and worse still he betrayed my trust. This has broken my heart, and I demand retribution. Ortega?"
"Yes, Buey."
"Begin. No, wait. I have something else to say. Let me closer. Do you hear me, boy? One last thing, before I go. I know where your family lives, and I will get the other half of my money soon."
" Mmmph !"
"Oh, and your puta of a sister has already been raped and strangled. Rest assured that my money is on the way back to my pocket."
"Buey?"
"Why do you interrupt me, Ernesto?"
"I cannot stay, I feel sick. Can you not end this quickly?"
"Boy, Ernesto seems to like you, and you have told me at least part of the truth, yes?"
" Mmmph ."
"Well, unfortunately for you, I am not in a good mood. I hereby retract my initial offer. Ortega?"
"Yes."
"You may take as much time as you wish with this one."
" Gracias , Buey."
"Show patience. You must pace yourself, yes?"
"Oh, Buey . . ."
"Ernesto, do not weep. You may leave and prepare our lunch."
"Thank you, sir. Thank you."
"I will be along in due time, yes? Now, Ortega. Let us begin."
"Fingernails?"
"No, not this time, I think. We should warm him up first with the blow torch."
TWELVE
It has been said that there are many different ways to get to Bel Air, but the easiest is to make a lot of money. Jack Burke drove down White Oak Boulevard, with its rows of weathered, pastel houses, forced his way onto the Ventura Freeway for a few exits. He stayed in the right lanes, where cracked concrete jiggled and thumped beneath the tires, and eased over to the San Diego Freeway, moving south. The sky was a bruised purple with streaks of orange from LA's belligerent pollution.
Burke's mind was wandering, and he almost missed the exit for Sunset Boulevard. A hunched-over elderly man in a finned white Caddy was smoking defiantly and squinting into the taillights of the next vehicle. Burke honked, but the old man refused to yield. Gauging the distance perfectly, Burke floored it and shrieked into a space between cars that opened and closed in a nanosecond. The old man flipped him the finger. The ramp was backed up; Los Angeles traffic was gnarly virtually any time of the day, but in rush hour it was hideous.
Burke hung a left on Sunset and followed it to the overgrown, half-shielded entrance to an exclusive, gated community. He left the main street, followed the winding drive and finally rolled up to a freshly painted guard shack. The rent-a-cop was a buff, blue-eyed kid with steroid pimples. He leaned out of the window and eyed Burke with a practiced gaze intended to intimidate.
"My name is Burke. Nicole Stryker left my name."
The kid made a show of searching his clipboard. He seemed disappointed when he discovered the name was listed. He nodded grudgingly, reached toward the car with one large hand. "Need to see a photo ID, sir."
Burke debated and then handed over his legitimate license, rather than one of the forgeries he has tucked away in the glove compartment. The extras were there to provide him with different first names—also with his last name spelled as Birk, Berk, or Burk. His eye color was different in some photographs, the same in others; a number of the licenses claimed he wore glasses or was subject to seizures when not on medication.
"Have you been here before, Mr. Burke?"
"No."
The kid leaned on the car. His breath reeked of garlic. "You take a right on Bellefontaine, go maybe two hundred yards until you get to Bogart Drive. Turn left on Bogart all the way to the top of the hill, maybe half a mile. You'll see a fork in the road. Take the left fork onto Warner Drive, and the house is the first one on the right side, you can't miss the gate."
"Thanks." Burke started the car. The kid was looking at him as if about to say something. Burke didn't want the police or anyone else interrupting. "In case you're wondering, I know he's dead. Nicole asked me to come up and
Similar Books
