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“In the current climate, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Maybe you’re right about Burgess and I’m out of my mind. But Anpu had one of the angel boxes. That proves he’s up to some nefarious shit.”
“Nefarious isn’t good enough. We have to link it back to Wormwood.”
“So, give me the night.”
“Is there any way I can trust you to do this quietly?”
“I’m quiet as a butterfly pissing in whipped cream.”
I can hear him sigh.
“See, when you talk like that it gives me pause.”
“I promise. No break-ins. No cops. No street fights or explosions.”
“One night. And you won’t get near him personally.”
“He’s hot lava. No tocar.”
“All right. But call me tonight, no matter how late.”
“It’s a date.”
I hang up and go to the window for a smoke.
I hope I can keep my word to Abbot. I’ll do my best. Move softly-softly. But if an angel shows up, I don’t care if we’re on the teacup ride at Disneyland.
I’m killing it.
OF COURSE, CHARLIE lives in a gated community all the way out in fucking Brentwood. Faux–Southern California charm meets Narnia with storm troopers on the parapets. If someone could bottle artisanal air, the residents of Brentwood wouldn’t permit ordinary peasant breezes to ruffle the blades of grass on their emerald lawns.
I should have stolen at least a Lexus to come out here. It isn’t easy being inconspicuous on a bike in this burg. Just as I’m about to head out to liberate luxury wheels, a silver Rolls Phantom cruises out of the gates. I recognize the license plate as Charlie’s and take off after him. It’s just like the other night at the Burgess place. Keep a safe distance. No lights until we’re back in the land of the living.
He heads into Hollywood. I wonder if he’s going back to Musso’s for another supervillain rendezvous when he turns on Highland Avenue and the only thing up that way is the Hollywood Bowl. Finally, some good news from this guy.
For a minute, I think I’m in trouble when he heads in the direction of valet parking, but like so many Scrooge McDucks, he’s cheap when it comes to the small things. He leaves the Rolls across two spaces in the peons’ lot. I cruise by him and the blonde from the other night like I’m looking for parking. There are a lot of suits and evening gowns in the crowd. Either it’s some kind of symphony show or the blue bloods are expecting a starship to take them to the promised land and they want to look good.
I leave the bike in a space at the back of the lot. Stroll casually back to the Rolls. I get out the black blade and jam it into the driver’s-side lock. The knife will open anything, even a snooty wagon like this. Naturally, I take a lot of guff from the bumpkin crowd when they see me pulling out of two spaces, but what’s a guy to do? We aristocrats are used to a certain level of asshole luxury. I give them the finger and speed away before someone starts asking why a con is piloting a four-wheel Learjet.
Privacy is the first thing I need for my next move. If I can’t break into Charlie’s mansion, I can sure as hell spend some quality time pawing through his glove compartment or whatever kind of steamer trunk they use in a Rolls.
I drive across town to Sixth Street, back to the warehouse where Burgess’s dad used to run his spook-bum fights. We’re far enough from civilization that even winos don’t hang around here. It’s just us rats by the railroad tracks tonight.
The warehouse is still deserted. There’s ragged crime-scene tape and cop KEEP OUT signs stapled to the doors, but I’m not going inside. I pull the Rolls around the back.
I pop the glove compartment and start digging. Which yields nothing but the registration, an insurance card, a pen, and some of his lady love’s makeup. I check under the seats, but they’re cleaner than a surgery. Charlie might cheap out on parking, but he pays for a good cleaning service, which really pisses me off. Couldn’t the scrub and vacuum crew leave me one bullet casing or the guest list for a Black Mass?
I check between the seat cushions in the front and back. The leather padding the Rolls is soft as angel food cake. For a second, I consider keeping the heap for a day or two. Candy and I could mess the interior of this thing pretty nicely. But that’s not an option in this invisible man operation.
Outside, I check the spotless wheel wells for hidden keys and, again, come up with nothing. Finally, I go around to the trunk, jam the blade in the lock, and open it up.
You could move a family of four in here and have room left over for a kiddie pool. I know that the trunk is going to be pristine and, honestly, I’m just going through the motions at this point. There won’t be anything in the back of this idiot’s ride but the smell of soap and money. But I keep at it.
Check the sides of the trunk for hollow places where he might be smuggling out-of-state fruit. Take out the tire and shake it to see if there’s anything inside but air. It’s just one more disappointment. There’s more padding under the wheel because, of course, we can’t let the poor tire ride in less luxury than the driver. How else will you impress the tow-truck drivers and car thieves?
I pull up the floor mat and my heart does a samba. There’s a compartment cut into the metal body of the car. The cuts are ragged at points and there are small gaps between the lid and the body. No car dealer did this. It’s as crooked as a Capone aftermarket mod. I hook a finger in a
