Richard Kadrey - Hollywood Dead

No one talks, but I hear a lot of grunts and moans. Probably from the shooters I torched. It’s small satisfaction, but I’ll take anything right now.

Except for Philip, things are going pretty much the way I’d hoped. The faction snatched both me and the case. They could have just shot me, but they didn’t, so that means they want information, which I’m more than happy to give them. I just wish this blindfold wasn’t so tight and I could see something. If they’re wearing their balaclavas in the van it means they still don’t want me to see their faces, which means they’re not necessarily planning on killing me. At least not right away. I’m going to have to improvise from here. And I can’t use hoodoo because they’ll know I’m a ringer and that will blow my chances of getting any useful information from them.

So I wait.

The drive takes a long time. We’re not moving for a lot of it and when we are, it’s at about five miles an hour. That means we’re probably on a freeway. The closest one is the 405, but are we going north or south? And are we staying on that one route the whole way?

I slow my breathing and try to relax. Theoretically that’s a good thing, but relaxing while blind lets my mind wander and the first thing that comes into my head is, I wonder what Candy is doing right now.

Nope. None of that shit. That will make me crazy, distract me enough that I’ll miss clues, and maybe get me shot. No, anything is better than thinking about Candy right now. I move my bound hands around so I can touch my wrist and feel my pulse. Count to sixty and start again, trying to time the drive. It’s well over an hour. In most towns that would mean we’re halfway to Argentina, but in L.A. it means we could be circling the block looking for parking. Still, it keeps my mind off Candy.

Finally, the van makes a sharp right turn. The tires crunch over something for a few seconds. Probably gravel by the sound. Then we’re back on solid pavement. When we stop, there’s the sound of a motor opening a large door. As it closes, the sound echoes. We’re probably in a warehouse. Now all I have to do is narrow it down from among the other ten thousand warehouses in L.A., while not getting shot. I hate multitasking.

Someone grabs my lapel and pulls me out of the van. I stumble getting out and a couple of them grab me before I can fall. Good. They’re concerned about keeping me in one piece for now. I can work with that. Someone pulls my blindfold off and I feel even better. Everyone still has their balaclavas on. Good. They want me to live. Now I just need to give them a reason.

One of the shooters drags me to a metal folding chair in the middle of the room. He’s limping and I look down long enough to see a burned pant leg.

“I hope there’s no hard feelings,” I tell him. “I was aiming for the van.”

He shoves me into the chair and cuffs me on the ear before joining the others behind me. I turn and look at him.

“Ow. Fuck you.”

A feminine voice from my other side says, “Don’t look at him. Look at me.”

I turn back around. She’s tall. Long torso, legs, and arms. In her spare time she could be a fashion model or a basketball player. Smart. Tall is good for these situations. It lets the interrogator loom menacingly. She’s wearing the same suit and balaclava as the guys who snatched me. That’s okay.

What isn’t okay is the cattle prod she’s holding.

She takes her time coming over. Points at me with the business end of the prod.

“Who are you?” she says.

“I work for Eva Sandoval.”

She moves the cattle prod back and forth like shaking her head no.

“That’s not what I asked. Who are you?”

Oh, right. A name. That’s the kind of thing I should have thought about instead of mooning over Candy.

“Miles,” I say. “Miles Archer.”

She pulls the cattle prod back and slaps it against her hand.

“Mr. Archer, answer my questions and you’ll get to go home. Don’t and …”

She shoves the prod into my stomach and gives me a good quick jolt.

“Understand?”

I look up at her.

“I’m not sure. Can you repeat the question?”

She jams the prod back into my gut and leaves it there longer this time. I’m a little out of breath when she takes it away.

“I think I got it that time,” I tell her.

“Good. What’s in the briefcase?”

I look down and see it sitting by her feet.

I shrug.

“It’s financial papers. That’s all I know. They don’t tell me much.”

“What do you do for Eva?”

“Lots. I move things around. I talk to people. I take care of problems.”

She leans in a little closer. I could probably snap her neck from here.

“A fixer,” she says. “That’s my job, too. You ever kill anybody for Eva?”

“No. That’s where I draw the line.”

When she shocks me this time, it’s on the inside of my thigh, close enough to my balls to make them consider finding work elsewhere.

“Okay. Yes. A couple of times.”

“Who were they?”

“Just some punks. One was selling company information out the back door. The other was a dog who needed to be put down.”

“A liability.”

I take a breath. “A big-mouth drunk and meth head. He was heading for trouble and taking the company down with him.”

“What company is that?”

“Southern California International Trade Association.”

Another shock, this time back in the gut.

“What company?”

“Wormwood Investments.”

“Good,” she says. “You might wonder why I’m asking you these particular questions.”

“Actually, I was wondering when the sushi class started. I forgot my knife, but there’s tuna in the briefcase.”

Another shock.

I say, “Yeah. I was curious about the questions.”

She gets closer, staring down at me like a buzzard sizing me up for lunch.

“I’m just trying to establish a basis for trust. If you’re going to live, we have to trust each other.”

“I’m all for that.”

“Here’s my problem though, Miles. It seems to me that you’re very chatty for a man in your profession. If you are who you say you are, I’d expect a bit more discretion. And balls.”

She points the cattle prod between my legs and I flinch just like she wants me to.

I say, “You mean I should encourage you to torture me? When I can tell you already know the answers to most of those questions? No thanks. I’m not getting my teeth kicked in for that.”

“I should ask you harder questions?”

“You should untie me and I’ll spring for drinks at Chateau Marmont. Short of that, yeah. Ask me something fucking real.”

“What’s the address you are going to?”

“I don’t know. The driver did.” I turn around and shout at the guys behind me. “He could have told you, but one of these assholes shot him.”

She shocks me in the ribs and I turn back around. I’m starting not to like her.

“Focus on me, Miles.”

“I don’t know the address. It was in Westwood.”

“Was it a bank? A person? A café?”

“A law office.”

“All right. That’s something. And you say it’s just financial papers?” she says.

“That’s what they told me.”

She holds the cattle prod about an inch from my face.

“Do you know who we are?”

“I have a pretty good idea.”

“Who?”

“You’re the faction. The other Wormwood.”

She moves the cattle prod like she’s going for my eye and this time when I flinch, it’s 100 percent real. Seeing that, she smiles.

“You’re wrong. We’re the only Wormwood. The Wormwood you work for is sick. A bloated tick full of diseased blood.”