Chuck Hogan - Devils in Exile

Novack said, “Hope you like tortillas.”

Lash nodded. Mexico was the current hotspot. Also Afghanistan. The War on Terror had rejuvenated the Golden Crescent — Afghanistan, Pakistan, and Iran — now producing 90 percent of the world’s opium.

Lash said, “The issue is — do I want to go back overseas, leave my boy? Or maybe it’s time to just walk away?”

Novack was surprised. “I can’t remember life without the shield.”

“You and me both, brother.”

Paramedics were attending to the only guy left inside, bleeding lazily from a gunshot to the thigh. Whiskers jutted out from his parched brown skin, too tired to grow anymore. He smoked a Kool.

The guy was already under arrest. He was more offended than anything. “You gotta get this freak, barging into my house.”

“Your house?” Lash said.

The guy shrugged. Another abandoned property colonized by zombies. A neighbor had buttonholed Lash on his way in. “People going in and out all night and day.”

Lash told her, “Why you neighbors always wait until the police show up to drop a dime?”

He looked at the blood being photographed on the floor. “Anyone shoot back at him?”

“No chance, no time,” said the Kool smoker. “Dude efficient.”

“You get a good look?”

“White-ass mutherfucka. Came in, did a buy first. Feeling it out. People don’t respect nothing no more, not a locked door, nothing.”

“I need more than skin color.”

“Wore an eye patch. Silly-ass pirate disguise. And an army-type cap. Camouflage on it. Dude was circumcised.”

Lash said, “Come again?”

“Whipped out his dick and pissed on my stash. You gotta get this freak.”

“He took money, but not product?”

The Kool guy pointed to the mess on the floor.

Lash said, “You said an army cap?”

Maven crouched behind a burlap-wrapped shrub, waiting for a buyer to pull up. He closed his eye when he could, resting it, easing the strain. He was still getting used to the eye patch he had purchased at CVS.

A blue Camaro arrived, and Maven grabbed the guy on the front steps, hair-walking him up to the door, ringing the bell. The homeowner tried to slam it shut when he saw Maven behind the buyer, so Maven used the buyer’s head as a battering ram.

Inside, he held a Glock 19 to the head of the homeowner as the guy worked the combination on a closet safe. He dumped the cash and two guns into Maven’s backpack and pulled out two cellophane-wrapped half-kilo bricks of cocaine.

Maven asked him where the rest was.

The homeowner said there was no more. Maven hit him in the face.

The homeowner showed him a brownie pan in the kitchen refrigerator containing a full kilo wrapped in wax paper.

Maven sat both men at the table where he could see them. He found a roll of aluminum foil and wrapped it around the cocaine, then placed the shiny bundle into the range-top microwave and punched in five minutes on HIGH.

A bout of dizziness made him reach for the counter. He sensed them growing bold, and turned fast, the room listing a bit in his vision. “Where is Royce?”

The homeowner shook his head, staring at his microwave. “I don’t know.”

Maven pressed START. The foil started to crackle and spark.

“Where’s Royce?”

“I don’t know!”

The rotating package glowed, then burst into bright silver flame. White smoke leaked out of the edges of the door.

“Royce!” said Maven.

“I don’t — nobody knows!”

The microwave popped as though bursting, the smoke turning an ominous gray. The homeowner started to get to his feet, but Maven gun-pointed him back into his chair. He couldn’t get anything out of him about Royce and had to settle for information on the homeowner’s supplier — the next highest rung on this interminable ladder.

The smoke detector went shrieking as the microwave door melted and the oven burst into flames, the fire going into the wall. Maven found a kitchen telephone and dialed 911. He said, to the dispatcher who answered, “I am a drug dealer and my house is on fire.” Then he tossed the telephone into the owner’s lap and walked out.

Some nights, parked across the street in the Parisienne, he watched the hopefuls milling around the roped-off entrance to Club Precipice. But Royce never showed.

One morning he drove out to Gridley and knocked on Danielle’s parents’ door, but she had moved out again. They didn’t know where.

Maven sat at the usual round corner table inside the Berkeley Grill, Ricky his only companion. They had a new waiter Maven didn’t recognize. He did the Royce thing, ordering their Budweisers and steaks and a few appetizers, then asked if the headwaiter could come to the table when he had a chance.

Maven looked at Ricky, who had probably never had a good steak in his life. He didn’t know why he had brought him, except that he didn’t want to be sitting at this big table all alone. Ricky picked at the appetizers with his good hand, chewing an asparagus spear, the first vegetable he’d eaten all year.

Sebastian, the headwaiter, with the server in tow, slowed when he recognized Maven. Sebastian covered his surprise with a quick smile and approached the table.

“Mr. Maven,” he said, tanned and tailored as always. “I’m sorry, I didn’t... no one told me you were here.”

Maven nodded, chewing. “This is my friend Ricky.”

Ricky didn’t wear his hat inside the restaurant, his head dent visible for all to see. Ricky waved his Bud bottle. “Hey.”

Sebastian nodded back, the barest minimum of courtesy. “I trust everything is prepared...”

“Perfect as always, Sebastian. I notice you changed the broccoli marinade.”

“In fact we did.”

Maven nodded, eating as he talked. “Business good?”

“Well, the recession, you know. People still appreciate a good meal.”

Maven nodded again, making Sebastian wait. “Tell me, does Mr. Royce still come in?”

“Only occasionally. Not as often as he once did.”

“If you see him before I do, would you give him a message?”

“Certainly.”

Maven worked with his notched tongue at some bit of meat stuck in his teeth. “Tell him I am going to kill him.”

Sebastian went apron white. He stood very still, as though awaiting further instructions. “Very good, then...,” he said finally, begging off, making his way back to the kitchen.

Hector, who went by the street name Hex, was examined by a guy with an audio scanner. Royce entered the foyer wearing dress pants and a sweater of warm yellow cashmere.

The audio guy pulled down his headphones. “He’s okay.”

Hex said, “You think I’d come here wired?”

Royce said, “Maybe without your knowledge.”

Hex followed Royce into a solarium overlooking a backyard sloping to trees. Another of Royce’s guys was out there, walking under a black umbrella in the rain. Termino muted the television.

Royce said, “So you saw him.”

Hex said, “I saw him.”

“How’d you get away without saying anything?”

“I was there to pick up a payment. He thought I was just another buyer. My guy didn’t dime me out because he knows what’s good for him. But, Christ, he put him through the wringer. Set his fucking house on fire.”

“He took money that was yours. And therefore partly mine. And you let him.”

Hex smiled away the attempted insult. “He had the drop on me. I know when I’m beat. This guy’s on a mission.”

“Who’s he working with?”

“I didn’t see anyone. All by his lonesome.”

“Not for Lockerty, then.”

“I think that last gambit at the Flower Exchange chewed up the rest of Lockerty’s beaten ass.”