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GOZAN REMARI AND Khezir Mazul were dining in Santa Monica at Mélisse, a fabulous restaurant known for its magnificent food and VIP service. Celebrities who came here were treated like gods.
Gozan wanted some god-type treatment. Actually, he needed it. He hadn’t slept or eaten since the bloody horror show this morning and he felt that there was more and worse to come.
He sat stiffly in his comfortable chair under the chandelier in the richly appointed brown-and-white room, smelling herbs and roasting meat while Khezzy played the waiter for a fool.
“These Japanese cucumbers. They are like sea cucumbers that puke out their intestines, isn’t that right?”
“Ah, no, sir. I don’t think so. They are a type of vegetable cucumber. Sliced and pickled.”
“Pickled sea cucumbers, am I right?”
Khezzy laughed and the waiter tried to look amused, but his eyes were fixed and his smile was tight. Khezzy loved to make people afraid. Usually, Gozan enjoyed watching Khezzy, but not now. Now, he was disturbed.
Gozan’s mind went back to the woman on the bathroom floor, her throat cut like swine, Khezzy’s knife lying next to her. And he thought about the subsequent killings and the dressing-down by Balar Aram that had humiliated him and made him worry that he and Khezzy would be sent back to Sumar. And if they were, how long would they be allowed to live?
“Khezzy, we should ask for recommendations, hmmm? And let this young man select for us. I am hungry.”
Khezir said, “Uncle, you will eat, I promise.”
Just then, Khezzy’s phone buzzed. He took it out of his jacket pocket, said, “This is strange. Hello. Yes, this is Khezir.” Then, angrily, “You suck. You can’t touch us.”
He slammed the phone down on the table and said, “Uncle, that pig’s ass of a police captain found my number on your phone. He said he tracked my phone with the GPS…Uncle, where’s your phone?”
Gozan felt his blood leave his head and run into his feet. He had lost his phone somewhere; had hoped it had fallen out of his pocket in Balar’s vehicle.
The front door of the restaurant opened and two men came in, their eyes going directly to him and Khezzy. Gozan recognized the police captain from that night at the Beverly Hills Hotel with the mango and peaches women. The other one had been there too. A private cop. Now the captain showed his badge to the
maître d’ and angled his chin toward where Gozan and Khezzy sat.
Gozan said, “They have come for us, nephew. Do not move or they will justify shooting us. Be calm and we will be fine.”
Khezzy swung his head toward the front, then whipped it around as the kitchen doors blew open. Four men in riot gear stormed into the dining room with guns drawn, yelling, “Everyone down onto the floor. Get down!”
Other cops were coming in through the fire exit like cannonballs. People screamed; dishes clattered and smashed. Diners went to the floor as the men converged on them and yelled to the Sumaris to keep their hands on the table.
Khezzy said, “You did this, Uncle. You are too stupid to live.”
Gozan felt light-headed, as if his mind were leaving his body. He leaned over and vomited his martini between his shoes. When the captain told him to get to his feet, he did. He clasped his hands behind his neck, and he kept saying to Khezzy, “Do what they say, Khez. Do what they say.”
Chapter 104
LESTER OLSEN EXITED the freeway onto West Tropicana Avenue and drove past the faux-medieval Excalibur Hotel and Casino on the right. He stopped at a light and then resumed his drive, feeling pretty good, actually, glad that he was taking action and that, very soon, he was going to be enjoying the life he deserved.
Val was quiet in the trunk, probably thinking about how much air she had in there, how hot it was, and rehearsing what she was going to say to him when he finally stopped the car and opened the trunk.
Well, she had to be thinking how she would get away, right?
Olsen kept going on Tropicana, took a right on South Eastern Avenue, passing McCarran Airport and the busy runways on the right. Then he crossed East Sunset Road, rehearsing a few things himself, choreographing his next moves.
The entrance to Sunset Park was just past the northwestern corner of the intersection, and he made the turn, driving the blue Taurus into Sunset Park. This place was frequented by hikers and dog walkers during the day and on weekends.
But this was a weekday and the sun was down. He should have the park to himself.
Olsen took the narrow road that skirted the large pond, looking for just the right place. He found an incline under a clump of trees, pointed the nose of the car toward the lake, and put on the brakes.
There was an island in the middle of the water with some Easter Island–type heads on it, and there were some geese. That was all. He got out of the car, went into the backseat, removed his briefcase, go-bag, Val’s handbag with her wallet and phone, and put it all on the ground.
Then he went around to the trunk, patted it, and said, “Val, I gotta be going. I just wanted to say nice try and good-bye.”
