II.

A cabbie dropped me off at The Shuttered Eye, a bar lean on class but fat with sauce. Tequila after bourbon never ranks as the brightest of ideas, but I’m a sports fan when it comes to the medieval style of brain surgery. Two shots later and nursing a third, I was loose enough to shrug off the morning. Maybe I wouldn’t even feel the bullet.

So much for optimism. I had company. “Heyah, Drake. Toots! Gimme a scotch, neat. Drake’s payin’.” Above the voice was a thick set of horn-rimmed specs. Above that, a weather-beaten porkpie hat parked on a head shaved completely bald. The Janitor. He muscled up next to me and smiled like a dog that just bit its owner.

It had come to this. There was a price on my head big enough to pull in a pro. The Janitor was the city’s darkest whisper when it came to hit men. You only saw him once, and that was the last time you saw anything. I rested a c-note on the bar next to him and saw to my glass. The bar served me another. I would need it.

“That won’t match it, Drake.” He sipped his scotch with steeled purpose. “Swimming lessons cost a lot more, and your friend wants you to drown.”

I sank my third shot without comment.

The Janitor shrugged and rolled another slug of scotch around his tongue. “I’m not the judge or jury here, Drake. You know that. I get my marching orders and give heavy sunset. You’re a good egg. I won’t aim for the face.”

One more try before I filled my trousers. “Look at the Franklin as a down payment. Leak on who set me up, I’ll work it with the law so you pull a bigger check on turning him in.”

He stared at me for what seemed like a week. “You ever kill a man, Drake?”

“Shot one or two. But you know my gig, I don’t aim higher than the kneecaps.” I checked my pants. Still clean. “Where’s this going?”

The Janitor unfolded his wallet and slid an address across the bar. “Same guy bankrolling your coffin is also yanking my chain. Figured he’d force a favor. If I polish him I’m gone. But you, my friend, have nothing to lose. Except me.”

Clear as a bell on a Sunday morning. Franklin met his wallet, and I was safe. For now.

I chucked a gallon into the Buick before making straight tailfins for South Central. Dusk was hustling the horizon, air slick with the bludgeon of a thug moon. I rubbed my temples with a free hand in a vain attempt to clear terrain for bridges I could build before I burned the old ones.

There’s no other way to meet your maker than under the filthy curtain of your own history. Part of me almost wanted Mexico instead. At least Tijuana hung a light bulb on what I was up against. Another bad rap, yeah sure. Not much different from this gig, but at least there was an escape route back then. It takes a hell of a lot less cash to grease the cops on a frame job when a bowl of chorizo is their only quota bonus.

I nudged my Buick off the road. The cracked asphalt of a sparse parking lot was slim refuge. I stepped out of the car, shouldered my iron, and tried to look business. Every gig, every place, I was always looking for a number. This one was found easily enough. In fact, it was all too easy. That scared me a little bit more.

My clothes stank of smoke, booze, and fear. With all of that sticky weight behind it, my fist met a door that matched the Janitor’s tip.

Three short, heavy raps and I stepped offside the threshold, revolver cocked by my ear. Dead noise hung in the smog. Then suddenly a grunt, followed by a shrill, high squeal.

Cheap doors give easy. I kicked the knob off, shouldered what remained, and blew a second thinking about pajamas.

The place opened up weird. Carnival weird.