Shakedown Read online

  “I’d, uh, really appreciate it if you could. And while you’re at it—”

  “Let me guess. Missing people connected with air or earth, right?”

  “Right. However I can repay you—”

  “I want dinner. And wine.”

  “Dinner is good. Wine is good.”

  “It’ll take me a while to go through the data. I’ll call you when I’m done.” She looked at him calmly. “Is that it?”

  “Well, there was something else I was going to ask you.” Angel rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Do you—do you belong to any groups?”

  Kate looked at him for a second and arched an eyebrow. “What, you mean like Scientology or EST? Or were you thinking more along the lines of the Supremes?”

  “I mean—anything. Church groups, fan clubs, fraternal organizations. Places where you get together with people you have something in common with.”

  “Well, let me see. There’s the Female Detective Appreciation Society that meets Wednesdays, the Police Sewing Circle on the weekends, and of course the Glee Club.”

  “You belong to a Glee Club?”

  She shook her head and sighed. “Angel, I’m kidding. About the only club I belong to is the Police Officers’ Association, and I haven’t been to a meeting since I joined. Being a detective and a woman puts me in a strange sort of limbo; I don’t really belong in either locker room, if you know what I mean.”

  “Yes,” Angel said. “I think I do.”

  Darla killed them all.

  When she was done, Angelus applauded. “Bravo!” he said. “Encore!”

  Darla gave a little mock bow. “I’m glad you approve. But now that the fires have finally burned themselves out, men like this will become more common; I fear your own little drama will soon have to close.”

  Angelus sighed. “Ah, you’re right, of course. At least they did most of the work before you sent them to their great reward.”

  The trapdoor had almost been cleared. Angelus threw aside the last few chunks of rubble, leaving only a single oak beam blocking the way. “Maria!” he called down. “Are you still there?”

  Silence.

  “Dead?” Darla said. “Wouldn’t that be a shame . . .”

  “I think not,” Angelus said. “I fear my dear Maria has figured out my little game, and she doesn’t want to play anymore. Not that she has a choice . . .

  “Maria! I know you can hear me, darlin’. And in a moment, you’ll see my face. Isn’t that grand?”

  “. . . go away . . .”

  Angelus laughed. “Oh, have we had a change of heart? Six days down in the dark, and suddenly I’m not good enough for you. Whatever brought this on?”

  “. . . Where’s Ernesto? I want to talk to Ernesto.”

  Angelus glanced down at the body of the man whose neck he’d snapped. “Ernesto, is it? He’s . . . taking a break.”

  “You killed him.” She sounded detached.

  “Actually, it’s worse than that,” Angelus said. “He was never real. It was just me, pretending, the whole time. Just like you were pretending about Francesco and Estrellita, weren’t you? They were dead from the beginning. You just thought I might work a little harder for three survivors than one.”

  “You’re the Devil.” She might have been talking about the weather for all the emotion in her voice.

  “No, but I’ve played cards with him once or twice,” Angelus said cheerfully. “He’s not as good at it as you might think. Me, though—when I play, I never lose.”

  “Go away. You’ll never have my soul.”

  “Your soul? Dear me, I’m not interested in such a paltry little item as that. Really, I just want you for your mind.”

  He grabbed hold of the oaken beam and heaved it aside. “Ready or not, here I come,” he said with a grin.

  He pulled the trapdoor open.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “So here’s what I’m thinkin’,” Doyle said. He and Angel were driving through East L.A. “These Tremblor guys—they can’t be the brightest bulbs on the Christmas tree, intellectually speakin’.” “How’s that?”

  “Well, they’re made outta rock, right? So, their brains are made outta rock.”

  “I’m not following.”

  “Do I gotta draw you a picture? Rocks in the head. That’s like, universally known as a metaphor for being simple.”

  “That’s kind of speciest of you, don’t you think?”

  “Kinda what?”

  “Speciest. Attributing one stereotypical quality to a species as a whole.”

  “Like sayin’ all vampires drink blood, for instance?”

  Angel frowned. “That’s exactly what I mean. I drink coffee, I can appreciate a good single-malt as much as you—but all you remember is type A, O, or AB negative.”

  “All right, all right, point taken. A little touchy today, are we?”

  “I don’t talk in a bad Transylvanian accent, either.”

  “I said all right! Geez, someone woke up on the wrong side of the coffin today.”

  “Very funny. Maybe I should wear a cape.”

  “Depends. Are you still talkin’ Dracula, or have we moved on to Batman?”

  “We’re here.” Angel pulled over and parked. Across the street, neon beer signs lit up the window of a small bar.

  “Okay, tell y’what. Since I’ve obviously offended your sensibilities by implyin’ you’re nothin’ but a bloodsuckin’ freak—”

  “You never said freak—”

  “—let me make it up t’you by buyin’ you a shot of the finest Scotch this establishment has t’offer.”

  They got out of the car. “That should set you back all of two dollars,” Angel said, looking the place up and down. The faded, peeling sign read CHICO’S PLACE. Broken glass sparkled on the sidewalk around the entrance, a beat-up metal door.

  Inside, the place was about as bad as Angel had expected. A long bar down one side, a row of booths down the other. Cracked red Naugahyde upholstery and scarred Formica tables. Most of the light came from the beer signs. There was a middle-aged Latina behind the bar, and three regulars huddled together at one end of it. Angel could tell they were regulars simply by their body language; “I’ve been here for a long time,” their posture said. “And I’m not going anywhere else, anytime soon.”

  They slid into a booth where they could watch the door. Doyle ordered two Scotches from the bartender.

  “So this is where Graedeker hangs out?” Angel asked.

  “Sometimes. He can be a hard man t’track down. Usually, he finds you.”

  “How does that work?”

  Doyle shrugged. “It’s kinda uncanny, actually. Let’s say you’re a demon who’s down on your luck. Maybe you picked the wrong horse, or you’re behind on a couple alimony payments to the ol’ succubus. Up sidles this guy who seems t’know about your troubles. ‘Maybe I can help you out,’ he says. ‘I’d be willing to lend you a little cash, as long as you got something to put up as collateral.’ Now, we’re not talkin’ stereos or wristwatches, here; he’s strictly interested in supernatural items.”

  “And if the demon defaults on the loan, he keeps the item.”

  “Right. He’s a pawnbroker, more or less. Thing is, sometimes gettin’ your property back is a little more difficult than pawning it off in the first place.”

  “He doesn’t like to return things?”

  The bartender arrived with their drinks. Doyle checked his pockets and looked sheepish. Angel paid her.

  “It’s not so much that,” Doyle continued. “It’s just that he can be hard to find. You ever watch The Twilight Zone? ”

  “I prefer books to television.”

  “Yeah, well, there’s this episode with an old curio shop, right? And this guy goes in there and winds up buying a magic bottle, and when he opens the bottle it changes him into Adolf Hitler.”

  “Now I know why I don’t watch television.”

  “Okay, maybe I got a few of the details wrong, but the important thing is, when he goes back to the shop to get a refund, it’s not there anymore.”

  A thoughtful look crossed Angel’s face, but he didn’t say anything.

  “So anyway—”

  “I’m still trying to picture Hitler asking for a refund,” Angel said.

  Doyle took a sip of his Scotch and tried not to wince. “Yeah, well, this idea of a disappearing store, I’ve seen the notion used a couple times. Movies, TV shows. Musta been where Graedeker picked it up.”

  “He has a disappearing pawnshop?”

  “Not exactly. He’s got a semitrailer he keeps his goods in; calls it the Devil’s Tulips. Lives in a sleeper compartment in the back of the rig. Moves it around a lot.”

  “Like the old Medicine shows,” Angel mused. “Used to be popular on the Western frontier. Sell you anything from Eternal Youth Elixir to magic beans.”

  “If you’re more comfortable with an analogy from the last century instead of this one, fine—but this guy deals only with the real goods. And if the Serpentene are half the businessmen they claim t’be, Graedeker should know all about ’em.”

  “The last century . . . that’s the problem.”

  “Good God, this Scotch is terrible. I need another one.” Doyle signaled the bartender.

  “My frame of reference, my roots—they’re all in the last two centuries, not this one.” Angel took a drink of Scotch and grimaced.

  “So?”

  “So it’s affecting my work. A detective has to be able to blend in, not stick out.”

  “You seem to be doin’ pretty well so far, detectivewise.”

  “I just don’t feel like I’m . . . integrated.”

  “Integrated? At the risk of soundin’ like a speciest, bein’ . . . daylight-challenged doesn’t exactly put you in the Typical American category. But that’s not what this is really about, is it?”

  “I’m just saying—”

  “You’re just saying you don’t fit in. You don’t belong. Welcome to the club, pal.” Doyle raised his drink, then stopped and frowned. “Wait. If you’re in a club, then you do belong. You know, it sounded a lot better in my head.”

  “All right, it’s not being different that bothers me,” Angel admitted. “I’ve been a vampire for almost two and a half centuries. I’ve gotten used to that. It’s knowing there’s no one else like me. I’m a species of one, Doyle.”

  “Well, this is the great meltin’ pot of the world. Sweet land of liberty. If you can make it here you can make it anywhere.”

  “You’re not going to start singing, are you?”

  “It’s within the realm of possibility . . .”

  The first thing Angelus saw was a crucifix.

  He wasn’t surprised. It was, after all, a church— and Maria already thought he was the Devil. If she had any doubts, they’d soon be gone . . .

  The hand holding the crucifix was bloodstained, grimy and shaking. The shaft of moonlight coming through the trapdoor fell directly on the cross, throwing off glints of silver that stabbed into Angelus’s eyes like daggers. He fought the instinctive urge to hiss and back away, and smiled instead. The pain of the cross could be endured; all it took was will power.

  “Now, darlin’,” he said softly. “You don’t think I’m afraid of a little trinket like that, do you? All that does is make me nostalgic.”

  “Keep back, keep back . . .”

  “I was there when they nailed him up, you know.” Angelus took one slow step forward. It was like walking against a strong wind . . . but one that was faltering.

  One that was dying.

  “It’s takin’ every ounce of strength you have just to hold that little thing up, isn’t it? And I just tossed an oaken beam aside like it was a piece of firewood. Do you really think you stand a chance against me?”

  “Go away . . .”

  “I’m not goin’ anywhere. Y’see, I’ve developed these feelin’s for you . . . feelin’s I can’t quite describe. Passionate feelin’s. Somewhere between love and murder, between the smell of a rose and the blood drippin’ off its thorns.

  “I want your heart, darlin’. And I mean that . . .”

  Then he just stood there, in the dark.

  And waited for her arm to fall.

  * * *

  “You ever belong to any groups?” Angel asked. He was still nursing his first drink.

  “Me?” said Doyle. “Nah. I mean, there’s a number of twelve-step programs that would love to have me, but so far, I’ve just said no. T’the programs, that is.”

  “I figured. You don’t slow down on the Scotch, pretty soon you’ll be asking for a ride to Wendy’s.”

  “Me, pull a Cordelia? Angel, come on . I’ve had more to drink before breakfast. Or for breakfast, for that matter.”

  “As long as you can deal with Graedeker.”

  “Not a problem.” Doyle took another drink. “You know, this stuff really improves once your tongue goes numb. Hey, I just remembered somethin’, a group I did belong to. Geez, I haven’t thought about those guys in years.”

  “What group was it?”

  “The Justice Fighters. We were superheroes.”

  Angel raised his eyebrows. “Superheroes.”

  “Oh, sure. Fought crime in my basement, mainly. You know, for a middle-class neighborhood, my basement was surprisingly seedy.”

  Angel smiled. “How old were you?”

  “Around eight. When we weren’t battlin’ the forces of darkness, we lay around and read each other’s comic books. I had a pretty impressive collection myself.”

  “Another twentieth-century art form that’s passed me by.”

  “That’s a shame; some of those guys were really good. Take Jack Kirby, for instance. He and Stan Lee practically invented modern-day comics.”

  “Stanley who?”

  “Stan Lee . They created Spiderman, the Fantastic Four, the Incredible Hulk . . .”

  “Any of them vampires?”

  “Well, no—”

  “Didn’t think so.”

  “There was this one character called the Demon, though, somethin’ Kirby came up with on his own. Regular-lookin’ guy most o’ the time. But when he recites this spell, he transforms into a creature from the Pit. Bright yellow skin, claws, horns, fins where his ears should be. Ugly bastard. Didn’t have a lot of friends.” Doyle stared down at his drink, swirling the ice cubes around slowly with one finger.

  “Yeah? He your favorite?”

  Doyle looked up. “What? Nah, he dressed weird and talked funny. My personal favorite was Wonder Woman, which eventually got me kicked out of the Justice Fighters and gave me a lifelong fetish for star-spangled underwear. And lassos that glow in the dark.”

  The silver crucifix, glinting in the moonlight . . .

  Angel shook his head and took a slug of Scotch.

  “Somethin’ the matter, pal? You looked a little more broody than usual for a second.”

  “You know how there’s something you haven’t thought of in decades, and suddenly it just . . . rises up in your mind? And then you can’t stop thinking about it?”

  “I don’t know about the decades part, but—yeah, sure. I take it this isn’t an old pop song we’re talkin’ about?”

  “No. It was something I did, a long time ago. Shortly after I became a vampire. Something horrible.” Angel finished his Scotch in a single drink. “It happened in Portugal, after a big earthquake destroyed most of Lisbon.”

  “I can see how the current case might stir up a few memories. You want t’talk about it?”

  “Not really. It was . . . monstrous. Maybe not the worst thing I ever did, but definitely in the top ten. It was my first real exploration of psychological torture as opposed to the physical kind, and I took to it like a duck to water. I don’t think you want to hear the details—especially not what I did at the end.”

  “Angel, you’re still a genius at psychological torture— y’just switched to the self-inflicted variety. You’re like the Jedi master of guilt.”

  “I know, I know. It’s just that all this talking about groups has gotten me to thinking . . . maybe I shouldn’t belong anywhere.”

  “Why? Because y’don’t deserve to? Angel, everyone deserves a little joy—”

  “Doyle, for me a little joy equals a lot of mass murder.”

  “Oh. Right.” Doyle nodded. “Forgot about that whole a-single-moment-of-true-happiness-and-youloseyour-soul-again business. Gypsy curses are a bitch, aren’t they . . .”

  Angel looked around and sighed. “It’s almost closing time. I don’t think he’s going to show.”

  “I think you’re right. Just let me hit the john and we’re outta here.”

  “I’ll wait in the car.”

  Angel was just about to unlock his door when he heard them. Four young men, approaching from the shadows. Baggy jeans, plaid shirts, expensive sneakers. Their colors marked them as Bloods.

  “Nice ride,” the shortest gang member said. One glance at his eyes told Angel he was the leader.

  Angel slipped his keys back into his pocket. “Thanks—but my ex-wife dumped a load of rotting fish in it during the divorce, and I still can’t get the smell out.”

  “The only thing I smell is B.S.,” the largest one said. His arms could have been an ad for a prison gym.

  “Give it up,” the leader said. Suddenly there was a gun in his hand.

  Angel sighed. “Great. Now I’m going to get shot. I hate getting shot. It hurts, you know? And it puts holes in my shirts.”

  “You got a strange set a priorities for a dead man. The keys, if you please.”

  The front door of the bar banged closed as Doyle left. He froze when he saw the scene across the street—and the short one’s eyes flickered to him for just a second.

  Angel grabbed the gunman’s arm, clamping one hand between his elbow and his shoulder and one over the top of his gun hand. He bent the arm back and suddenly the gangbanger found his own pistol jammed under his chin.

  “Hold it,” Angel said.

  Two of the others pulled guns of their own. One was aimed at Angel, while the big guy covered Doyle.

  “Let him go or I’ll drop your friend,” the big guy growled.