Read Online This Wicked World by RICHARD LANGE - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: RICHARD LANGE
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head back, feels all the little bones in his neck pop. “No, no,” he says. “Let it lie. It’s irritating, but it won’t kill me.”
“There you go. That’s the right attitude.”
“I mean, the kid’s right. I did fuck up.”
“But you had honorable intentions, Jimmy, and that makes all the difference. Always remember that.”
Boone adjusts his sunglasses and says, “That’s sweet of you, Danny, but I’d rather forget the whole thing.”
“If you figure out how to do that, let me know,” Berkson replies. “I have a few things that need forgetting too. But, look, I gotta run now. Call me if you need anything.”
“Will do, buddy.”
A car alarm goes off, startling Boone and a couple of pigeons tearing into a half-eaten bag of potato chips sitting in the homeless guy’s cart. The owner of the car, an Asian woman, runs out of the nail parlor next door, barefoot, caught in the middle of a pedicure. She aims her remote at the silver Mercedes and thumbs the button repeatedly until the screeching stops.
Boone steps back into the Laundromat. The homeless man is moving his head in time to a Muzak version of Elton John’s “Daniel,” a dreamy look on his face.
“How you?” he asks Boone.
“Not so great.”
“You see the bombs on the news?”
Boone checks his watch. Four hours until he’s supposed to pick Robo up at Denny’s and accompany him to Oscar Rosales’s last known address. Four hours to kick himself for looking for trouble again.
T.K. PARKS IN front of the hulking Craftsman-style house in Echo Park, a couple blocks up from the lake. The place looks to have been neglected for a long time. It slumps defeated in the perpetual shade of two shaggy firs, weighed down by the dusty ivy that covers one wall and is now spreading over the roof like a dark green claw. Most of the windows are boarded up, and the last of the paint is peeling away.
“Who’d you say we’re putting out?” T.K. asks. “Herman Munster?”
Spiller shrugs and opens the door of the truck. He reaches into the glove box for his pretty little Hawg 9 and slips it under his belt at the small of his back while T.K. retrieves his gun from between the console and the seat.
“I don’t see why Taggert’s interested in this wreck, unless he’s doing the neighbors a favor,” T.K. says. “You know what a shithole like this does to property values?”
“Could be a principle thing,” Spiller replies.
“Principle. Yeah, right.”
The picket fence surrounding the property is also in bad shape. Most of the slats are missing, and the ones that remain are broken or barely hanging on. The gate lies rotting in the waist-high weeds that have taken over the yard.
Spiller and T.K. walk up the cracked concrete path to the sagging porch. An orange cat sunning itself there rolls to its feet, glares at the men, then disappears into the bushes. Spiller feels the first step give slightly under his weight, the wood spongy, almost eaten through by termites.
“See that?” T.K. points the toe of his shoe at the small black pellets scattered among the Thai takeout menus that litter the porch. “Rat shit.”
Spiller stops in his tracks, the muscles in his legs freezing up. When he was a baby, a rat climbed into his crib and bit him in the face. His mom says it never happened, that he must have dreamed it, but Spiller can still feel the animal’s teeth ripping into his cheek and smell its garbage-dump breath.
One step. Two. He forces himself to walk to the front door, a scream rattling against the back of his teeth.
V IRGIL DRAWS HARD on the bong, the water inside bubbling as he fills his lungs with smoke. He feels a cough coming on but holds back, because this is the good shit, the kush, and he doesn’t want to waste a bit of it.
Eton is sitting in his ornate wood and velvet vampire chair, telling one of his punk rock stories. He looks like a vampire too: tall and thin with dyed black hair hanging to his shoulders, one blue eye and
“There you go. That’s the right attitude.”
“I mean, the kid’s right. I did fuck up.”
“But you had honorable intentions, Jimmy, and that makes all the difference. Always remember that.”
Boone adjusts his sunglasses and says, “That’s sweet of you, Danny, but I’d rather forget the whole thing.”
“If you figure out how to do that, let me know,” Berkson replies. “I have a few things that need forgetting too. But, look, I gotta run now. Call me if you need anything.”
“Will do, buddy.”
A car alarm goes off, startling Boone and a couple of pigeons tearing into a half-eaten bag of potato chips sitting in the homeless guy’s cart. The owner of the car, an Asian woman, runs out of the nail parlor next door, barefoot, caught in the middle of a pedicure. She aims her remote at the silver Mercedes and thumbs the button repeatedly until the screeching stops.
Boone steps back into the Laundromat. The homeless man is moving his head in time to a Muzak version of Elton John’s “Daniel,” a dreamy look on his face.
“How you?” he asks Boone.
“Not so great.”
“You see the bombs on the news?”
Boone checks his watch. Four hours until he’s supposed to pick Robo up at Denny’s and accompany him to Oscar Rosales’s last known address. Four hours to kick himself for looking for trouble again.
T.K. PARKS IN front of the hulking Craftsman-style house in Echo Park, a couple blocks up from the lake. The place looks to have been neglected for a long time. It slumps defeated in the perpetual shade of two shaggy firs, weighed down by the dusty ivy that covers one wall and is now spreading over the roof like a dark green claw. Most of the windows are boarded up, and the last of the paint is peeling away.
“Who’d you say we’re putting out?” T.K. asks. “Herman Munster?”
Spiller shrugs and opens the door of the truck. He reaches into the glove box for his pretty little Hawg 9 and slips it under his belt at the small of his back while T.K. retrieves his gun from between the console and the seat.
“I don’t see why Taggert’s interested in this wreck, unless he’s doing the neighbors a favor,” T.K. says. “You know what a shithole like this does to property values?”
“Could be a principle thing,” Spiller replies.
“Principle. Yeah, right.”
The picket fence surrounding the property is also in bad shape. Most of the slats are missing, and the ones that remain are broken or barely hanging on. The gate lies rotting in the waist-high weeds that have taken over the yard.
Spiller and T.K. walk up the cracked concrete path to the sagging porch. An orange cat sunning itself there rolls to its feet, glares at the men, then disappears into the bushes. Spiller feels the first step give slightly under his weight, the wood spongy, almost eaten through by termites.
“See that?” T.K. points the toe of his shoe at the small black pellets scattered among the Thai takeout menus that litter the porch. “Rat shit.”
Spiller stops in his tracks, the muscles in his legs freezing up. When he was a baby, a rat climbed into his crib and bit him in the face. His mom says it never happened, that he must have dreamed it, but Spiller can still feel the animal’s teeth ripping into his cheek and smell its garbage-dump breath.
One step. Two. He forces himself to walk to the front door, a scream rattling against the back of his teeth.
V IRGIL DRAWS HARD on the bong, the water inside bubbling as he fills his lungs with smoke. He feels a cough coming on but holds back, because this is the good shit, the kush, and he doesn’t want to waste a bit of it.
Eton is sitting in his ornate wood and velvet vampire chair, telling one of his punk rock stories. He looks like a vampire too: tall and thin with dyed black hair hanging to his shoulders, one blue eye and
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