Fun and Games Read online

  “I thought they got you,” she said.

  “I’ve been told I’m stubborn. Guess I didn’t want to die yet.”

  “Are they still here?”

  “They’re definitely still outside, and I’d imagine they’re pretty pissed off. One of them was out back, sunbathing, watching the house. I think it was the same one who shot you up on the highway, because her left eye was bandaged up.”

  “A blonde? Kind of severe-looking?”

  “Yeah. Only she’s going to be even more severe-looking, because I punched her in the face, too.”

  “What is it with you and punching women in the face? Is that your signature move or something?”

  “It’s quickly becoming a specialty.”

  “What about the others?”

  “I threw one of them, who looked kind of young, off the back deck balcony. Oh, and that was after I made him puke. And then there was a third guy. Older, bigger. I had no idea what I did to him, but he crawled away like I’d hurt him bad.”

  “Those sound like the guys who were chasing me from the one oh one.”

  Hardie didn’t want to pressure her or anything—she’d been through a lot and was probably still in shock. But he had to know.

  “Where the hell were you?”

  Lane’s one pretty eye looked up at him.

  “I found a secret closet.”

  Those five words sounded funny, even to her.

  Sounded like complete and utter horseshit, actually.

  But what was she going to do? Say, Oh yeah, by the way, I knew about the secret closet because this house actually belongs to my secret boyfriend? Lane couldn’t involve Andrew any more than she already had.

  She should never have come to his house.

  When she started limping in like a crazy woman toward Lake Hollywood Drive, Lane tried to fool herself that this was the only way out. All along she knew she was running toward Andrew’s house.

  Sweet, sweet Andrew—her secret nonboyfriend. The nonboyfriend that no one else on earth knew about. The nonboyfriend who was the exact opposite of her for-show, management-sanctioned actor boyfriend. Who was a complete and utter douche.

  As she ran for her life, she knew Andrew was pretty much the only person in Los Angeles County who would not think she was crazy, who wouldn’t judge her, who wouldn’t turn her away. Who understood her situation, and what had happened three years ago. Exactly the kind of person you want to have in your corner when hunted by faceless killers.

  And…

  He wasn’t home.

  Why wasn’t he home?

  Lane was mildly hurt that he hadn’t told her somehow—even in a Twitter DM—that he’d gone off to Russia. Russia, as in halfway around the fucking world. True, the last conversation they’d had was a sloppy drunken late-night phone fight, but that wasn’t enough to send someone fleeing to another hemisphere… was it? Maybe it was.

  So she’d lied to Charlie the House Sitter about knowing this place, figuring the less she drew Andrew into this mess, the better. She lied about not knowing the security codes, lied about not knowing the owner of the house. Over the past six months they’d spent a lot of time in the bedroom on the bottom floor, getting high and talking about stupid things.

  It had been very nice to just talk about stupid things.

  “Secret closet?” Hardie said, raising an eyebrow.

  “I swear to God, it’s this weird closet behind the closet. I crawled in there to hide, and I must have tripped the opening mechanism. I crawled back in there and closed it behind me and—”

  “Secret closet,” Hardie repeated.

  “You don’t believe me? Go down and take a look for yourself. It’s all there. Along with a couple pounds of pot, if you’re into that sort of thing.”

  “Oh, no, I believe you about the secret closet. Totally makes sense. This is L.A., and L.A. is full of weird shit.”

  “So, why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Because I don’t exactly believe that you just so happened to find it while you were stumbling around in the closet, looking for a hiding space. You knew about it.”

  “If I knew about it, then why wasn’t I hiding inside it when you came into the house this morning?”

  “Because you were angry,” Hardie said, “and you thought I was one of them, and you wanted to kick one of their asses. So, no, I don’t believe you just happened to find this magical secret closet.”

  Lane blinked, but her face didn’t betray a single emotion. Hardie supposed that’s why they paid her the big bucks.

  “What, is it a little too deus ex machina for you?” she asked.

  “Look, you’re talking to a guy who used to work with cops. And if there’s one thing cops are good at, it’s sniffing out bullshit. You go stomping around in it all day long, you get to be kind of an expert.”

  Lane ignored him.

  “You don’t know what that phrase means, do you. Deus ex machina. ‘God from a machine.’ Where an impossible problem is suddenly resolved by some new character, ability, or object.”

  “I know what it means. Mr. Roach taught that in freshman-year English.”

  “Gee. I didn’t learn that until drama school.”

  “And now you’re changing the subject, trying to distract me from your previous serving of bullshit.”

  “You thought I was lying before about people trying to kill me. And look who turned out to be telling the truth.”

  “There’s probably a Latin term for that, too, what you’re doing, but I can’t think of it. Look, I don’t give a shit about your personal life. I’m not going to sell your secrets to the tabloids. And I don’t care what your boyfriend Andrew—”

  “I don’t know the owner of this house! Whoever the fuck he is!”

  “—was into, I really don’t. But if you do know, you probably know what he keeps in this house. Like, for instance, maybe something useful like a gun.”

  Lane blinked.

  “There are no guns in the house. I checked when I first broke in here. Do you think I’m an idiot? You’re lucky I didn’t find a gun, because if I had, I probably would have shot you in the head.”

  Hardie had to concede that one. Though he wouldn’t go so far as to call himself lucky. If he had any kind of luck, it was the get-hit-by-a-car-and-discover-you-have-cancer kind of luck. You’re probably going to die from your injuries, but we’re also going to give you chemotherapy, just in case you make it through.

  But still, Hardie thought about the magical secret closet and the stash of pot. Maybe Lowenbruck did a little dealing on the side.

  And if so, just maybe he kept a piece with his stash.

  Hardie helped Lane to her feet, then brought her into the bathroom. Her eye was swelling up pretty good. He hoped she didn’t go looking in the mirror, because she might decide to come after him with the mic stand again.

  “Lock yourself in here,” Hardie said. “Don’t open the door for anyone but me. I’ll be right back.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Check your magical secret closet. Maybe help myself to some grass.”

  Lane giggled, despite herself. She was probably still reeling from the punch to her face. But even as he spoke the words, Hardie heard the shrill voice in the back of his head. Yeah, you’re a real clown. But that’s all you’re good for. You can’t protect her. You can’t protect anybody.

  Downstairs, in the bedroom closet, was the secret room, as promised. And, yes indeedy, there was pot—three tightly packed bricks of it, as well as a box full of loose pot in tiny Ziploc bags. No guns. Not even a knife. What did this guy use to cut into the bricks of pot? His ninety-nine-cent corkscrew?

  The pot was essentially useless to him—unless he could use it to barter with Topless. Maybe she could toke up, ease the pain in her eye. Hardie’s mother had been a stoner, so to rebel he became a drinker. Why couldn’t Lowenbruck have kept a wet bar or something down here? Why couldn’t this have been Prohibition, and there’d
be a jug of brown lightning hidden away?

  For that matter, why couldn’t this be just another gig?

  Hardie wanted so badly to pop awake on a comfortable leather couch, half-empty bottle of Knob Creek resting against his crotch, and realize he was having a seriously weird fucking dream with celebrities in it.

  14

  I can still see!

  —Rumored original final line of Roger Corman’s

  X: The Man with the X-Ray Eyes

  THE TWO OF THEM—Mann and O’Neal—briefly reconvened in the back of the van on top of the hill. O’Neal was shocked when he saw Mann. She had blood streaked down her cheeks and seemed to be wearing her bikini top upside down. Then again, O’Neal was sure he’d looked better, too. He’d self-administered the adrenaline in enough time to counter the heart-attack special, but he felt like 160 pounds of wet shit. His skin was clammy yet warm. Sweating out of every single pore of his body. Head pounding. If this was what a heart attack felt like, then O’Neal swore to eat a bullet the moment his primary doc told him his cholesterol was looking a little high. He’d fucking mainline oatmeal if it kept his arteries clean.

  “What’s our plan?” O’Neal asked.

  Mann sat down on a crate, ripped open a first-aid kit, started squeezing some antiseptic into a patch of gauze.

  “I want to know more about who we’re dealing with. Get Fact boy on the line and tell him I want everything in ten minutes. If he gives you an excuse, tell him we’re severing our business relationship.”

  O’Neal watched Mann work on her face. More blood trickled down her cheek. The eye wounds looked hideously painful. He waited for Mann to flinch. She didn’t. Her fingers moved around her eye, flicking pieces of plastic away from the corners of her eye. Which was not easy with compromised vision and no mirror.

  “Can I help?” O’Neal asked.

  “Yeah. By calling Factboy.”

  Factboy sat on the toilet and read about the death and life of Charles Hardie.

  He didn’t need to file an electronic National Security Letter this time. The story had been all over the local paper three years ago. (He didn’t think he should mention that little tidbit to Mann just yet.) Seems Hardie had worked with a detective named Nate Parish—who, in turn, was part of a joint Philly PD–FBI task force dedicated to cleaning up Philadelphia at all costs. (Factboy had visited Philly once. Good fucking luck with that.)

  Albanian gangsters had broken into Nate Parish’s suburban home and shot the detective and his family—thirty-eight-year-old wife, ten-and six-year-old daughters—to death, execution-style. Also at the scene was Hardie, who had been almost shot to death. He’d flatlined and everything, but EMTs were able to revive him. A couple of surgeries later at Pennsylvania Hospital, it became clear that Hardie was going to make it. Within six months he was walking around again.

  But the strange thing wasn’t that Hardie survived; it was that Hardie had survived twice.

  The first time was at his own home, which the gunmen had visited before they hit the Parish house. The Albanians sprayed heavy artillery all over Hardie’s place, with him inside. One reporter compared the scene to something out of Kabul. Broken windows, chopped-up woodwork, severed plants, exploded chunks of brick.

  But Hardie survived the attack, even though he took anywhere from one to three bullets. (See, the Philly PD couldn’t really tell because he received more bullets from the same guns during the second attack.)

  Anyway, badass Charlie Hardie not only survived but was able to rouse his bleeding self, make his way to the garage, start up his car, and race to his friend and partner’s house to warn him the Albanians might be coming for him, too.

  But it was the worst thing he could have done.

  Oh, if only he could take that back…

  The gunmen arrived not long after Hardie did, giving them a second opportunity to kill him. They even stopped to reload, according to one account, and continued the execution. This time, Hardie didn’t get up and chase after them.

  But he also didn’t die.

  A local columnist dubbed him “Unkillable Chuck.”

  At first everyone said he was a hero. A “Philadelphia-style hero,” some columnist said. Hardie had tried his best and lost—just like Rocky. That didn’t mean he didn’t give it his all. And that was something to be commended.

  Soon, though, the tide turned, as it is wont to do. Some city council members questioned Hardie’s role with the Philly PD—was he a consultant or a hired thug? What had he done to piss off the Albanians so badly? Rumors of double-dealing and corruption spread through local papers and blogs. Hardie refused to comment; so did the Philly PD.

  After that… the coverage pretty much died. Hardie spent six months recuperating, then went into exile.

  Factboy had to admit, the story hit home. Turns out Hardie had a wife and kid, too, and luckily they weren’t home when the gunmen paid a visit. Factboy had a hard time thinking about something like this happening to him—to his wife and kids. It’s the kind of thing that went through his head in the middle of the night when he couldn’t sleep. This chosen profession of his.

  Which made what he had to do next more than a little creepy.

  But hey, it was his job.

  O’Neal gave Mann the highlights as she finished repatching her eyes. He knew better than to try to persuade her to visit a hospital—or even the mobile doc they kept on retainer. She’d want to stay, finish the job. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t try to talk a little sense into her. Maybe propose a viable alternative.

  “What about the team—on the other job?”

  She pressed tape to her brow. “What about them?”

  “They’re not on until tonight, and I know they’re in the area. Why not bring them over and have them finish these two off?”

  “No.”

  O’Neal ran his tongue along his teeth, looked down at the floor, tried again.

  “It could be a home-invasion scenario. Simple enough. She holes up here, at her boyfriend’s place. Only somebody’s robbing the place at the same time. Things go south, she mouths off, gets shot…”

  “Way too coincidental. And the minute you involve guns is the minute everybody and their mothers start picking apart the narrative. With guns, it’s almost never an accident, unless you’ve got a ten-year-old kid, inattentive parents, and an unlocked cabinet.”

  Right. The narrative. With Mann everything was about the narrative. And she was so anti-gun, you’d think you’d find her out on weekends, arms linked with Oprah Winfrey and George Clooney, singing “Kumbaya” at a rally.

  “This could be over in twenty minutes,” O’Neal. “Don’t dismiss it.”

  “We can’t use the first team.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because they’re already busy.”

  O’Neal knew there were two jobs this weekend, and he had to admit, he was bummed to be in a backup role for the second. For some reason, Mann had wanted two completely different primary teams. He knew little about the other job, other than that it was “on the other side of the mountain” and set for that night. Making this a kind of twilight doubleheader for Mann.

  “What about a fire? We can light it from the bottom. It’s L.A., and it is the season. Completely plausible. We can even figure out a way to pin it on her.”

  “It’s sloppy. The actress and Hardie could make it out. And too hard to control. Once a fire breaks out, it could wipe out dozens of homes before the fire department makes it up here. The arson investigators would have a field day.”

  Yeah, O’Neal thought. But they’d be dead, wouldn’t they?

  He held his tongue. This was why she was the director and he was the deputy. Not for lacking of trying, though. Maybe someday he’d earn a top spot on the production team. He’d put in the hours, certainly.

  Mann finished up by running a wet wipe over her eyes to remove the dried blood and dirt. She pulled a black dress over her bikini, and applied lipstick as best she could without a mirror.
She could pass for an aging Hollywood Hills trophy wife who’d endured a particularly rough crow’s-feet plastic surgery session.

  “I’m going back down to the other vantage point. I’ll check in with A.D. Make sure he’s still functional.”

  A.D. was indeed still functional.

  He’d passed through shock and come through it okay, all things considered.

  Now he was directly under the bottom floor, keeping watch. If they were going to bolt, they’d most likely try it from the windows closest to the ground. The drop wasn’t too crazy; you could survive. Hell, he survived being kicked in the balls and falling from the top floor. A drop off the bottom floor? No problem at all.

  “You sure you’re okay?” Mann asked, crouching down next to him. “You can still see and hear?”

  “Yeah. You know, I’m kind of surprised about it myself… but I’m still in this. Don’t count me out, boss.”

  “I won’t.”

  “How’s your eye? You can’t even tell with those glasses on.”

  “I need you to focus.”

  “Okay, I can focus. What do you want me to do?”

  “How far do you think you can crawl?”

  Mann knew O’Neal was impatient to finish this. So was she. But you don’t go this far and make a mistake at the very end. The narrative was everything. Now that she knew a little more about Hardie, she’d figured out the perfect way to eliminate him.

  He wouldn’t even know it was coming.

  15

  It’s quiet. Too quiet.

  —Movie cliché

  THE FIRST hour slid by Hardie and Lane on the second floor, taking up a position in the hallway between the bathroom and the stairway to the lower level. Their weapons: a corkscrew and a slightly used mic stand. Hardie wanted to make a run for it right away. The Indians were wounded; this was the time for the cowboys to make their getaway. But Lane refused—no way, no how—and reminded Hardie of what happened the last time he tried to walk out the front door. Hardie had no choice but to concede her point. Didn’t mean he had to like it.