Authors: Robert Masello
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #United States, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Thrillers
Bestiary (36 page)
When the music changed, and Prince started singing about 1999, Greer swiveled on his stool. That was Ginger’s music, and sure enough out she came, in an outfit of purple plastic and foil and strutting the way Prince used to do in his old videos. Greer knew the outfit wouldn’t stay on long.
But his eye was drawn across the runway to a table on the far side, where he saw the back of Sadowski’s head; he was sitting with that guy Burt from the shooting range, and a couple of other guys that Greer vaguely recognized. Where had he seen them before? He took a long pull on his drink, then thought,
Oh yeah, the recruitment party
. These were guys who’d been studying the Sons of Liberty membership materials. Greer had to hand it to the organization—they knew how to rope these assholes in.
Oh yeah, the recruitment party
. These were guys who’d been studying the Sons of Liberty membership materials. Greer had to hand it to the organization—they knew how to rope these assholes in.
“You want another?” the bartender who wasn’t Zeke said, and Greer just shoved his empty glass at him.
Ginger was unzipping one purple pant leg, and a second later she was twirling the pants high above her head, then throwing them out into the crowd. She looked right at Greer, but in the bright lights that covered the runway—hey, nobody wanted to miss a thing—he doubted she’d even seen him.
Still, he felt a flicker in his groin and thought about buying a lap dance later. He wondered if he could get it on credit; cash was a little tight right now . . . though things might be looking up very soon.
After his visit to al-Kalli’s estate, he figured he now had something on him—something concrete and real and valuable. Those animals had to be worth a ton, not only given the facility he’d built to house them, but the fact that they didn’t exist—to Greer’s almost certain knowledge—anywhere else in the world. It was as if al-Kalli had his own little Jurassic Park up there, and from the security precautions alone—not to mention the fact that he fed
people
to them—Greer had a strong conviction that all the blackmail material he needed was now in hand.
people
to them—Greer had a strong conviction that all the blackmail material he needed was now in hand.
When he’d sat down to write the new shakedown note, he’d felt on much firmer footing than the last time. First he introduced himself as the man who’d so capably delivered the goods in Iraq, then he explained that he was “very well aware” (he’d been proud of that turn of phrase—it sounded very professional to him) of the “rare and valuable livestock” al-Kalli kept on the grounds. He knew enough not to come right out and start spelling out the terms of the deal—how much he’d need to keep quiet, how the money should be paid, where they should meet to make the exchange—but he did make clear that he was not a patient man and he expected to hear back immediately, “or word might reach the proper authorities.” He still didn’t know who those authorities would be, or how exactly he’d reach them, but he was damn sure it wouldn’t come to that.
Since he didn’t know al-Kalli’s actual address, and didn’t want to wait the week it would take those assholes at the post office to get the letter to him, he’d driven up there himself. He’d gone at night, so he’d be likely to catch that same gatekeeper—the black kid, Reggie—who remembered him from the first excursion.
“Hey, Reggie,” he’d said, pulling up in front of the locked gates. “Got something here for Mr. al-Kalli.”
“You off duty?” the kid had said, noting that Greer wasn’t in his Silver Bear uniform or the patrol car.
“Yep,” Greer had said, holding up the sealed envelope. “Just be sure Mr. al-Kalli himself gets this.” As he handed it over, he made sure that Reggie also got hold of the fifty-dollar bill under it. “It’s very important he gets this himself.”
Reggie looked confused for a second and studied the bill. Then he slipped the money into the breast pocket of his shirt and said, “Sure thing. I’ll put it in his hand myself, next time he comes through.”
“You do that,” Greer said, then backed out and down the hill.
He still hadn’t heard back, but then, something like this was bound to take a little bit of time, while the mark thought about what to do, how to handle it, and all that. Greer did know one thing already, though—he knew not to trust al-Kalli in anything. He knew he’d do whatever it took—hell, he’d seen it happen—and if Greer wanted to come out of this rich and, better yet, still alive, he’d have to keep his wits about him.
One more reason that he needed some of the uppers that he’d come to get from Zeke.
Right now, Zeke was down on the beach, scrambling in the sand after a loose ball. His partner—they were both wearing matching yellow shorts and visors—had that pumped-up-on-steroids look. Why, Greer idly wondered, would you need to get pumped up to smack a ball over a volleyball net? Even though some of the soldiers had set up volleyball courts at the base in Iraq, Greer had always thought the game was kind of candy-ass. And those matching yellow shorts just confirmed it.
As he brushed the sand off the ball, Zeke glanced up toward the parking area and spotted Greer leaning over the rail. He raised his chin in acknowledgment, and Greer lifted one finger to the brim of his cap. When the game was over, and everybody had finished high-fiving each other—another faggoty thing to do—Zeke sauntered over to the concrete stairs that led up to the parking lot.
“Hey, man, good for you,” Zeke said, bouncing the ball on each step.
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“You took my advice—got some sun.”
Greer, from under his sunglasses, cap, and long-sleeved shirt, said, “Yeah, I’m just soakin’ up the rays.”
Zeke stopped at a white SUV, popped open the back, and tossed the ball inside. “Haven’t seen you around the Bayou lately,” he said, rummaging around in a pile of sweaty clothes.
“I was in last night.”
“Oh yeah? I was off.”
“I know that. Why do you think I’m here now?”
Zeke pulled a fresh T-shirt over his head and said, “What do you need?”
“What are you holding?” Greer ran down a few things he might be interested in, while Zeke, nodding, dug around in the back of the car. He pulled out an Adidas bag, looked both ways to make sure nobody was around, then unzippered it. “Okay, this is what I’ve got.” He had some Percodans, some OxyContin, a few Demerol. “I usually don’t carry,” Zeke explained. “It’s all back at the club.”
“This’ll do,” Greer said, taking out his money clip—an oversized paper clip—selecting what he wanted, and handing over the cash.
“We’ve got another match in a couple of hours. Want to watch?”
“I’ll get back to you on that,” Greer said, walking back to his own Mustang—damn, now that he saw it in the sunlight, he could see just how much of the green paint was falling off—and got in. There was a can of beer, not too warm, on the front seat, and he used it to wash down a few of his newly procured meds. There was a breeze blowing, and Greer just leaned back, gazing out at the blue sky and the blue water, the shimmering sand and the brown strip of smog, way off in the distance toward Catalina. Behind him he could hear the rush of the unending traffic on Pacific Coast Highway. This wasn’t so bad, he thought; he should come here to get stoned more often. It was a lot more peaceful than the Blue Bayou.
Damn, why was he thinking about that shithole again? He still regretted what he’d done there last night.
He’d given Sadowski, of all people, an opportunity to dis him. After Ginger’s set, Greer had crossed the room to join Sadowski and Burt and their new pals. That’s how desperate he’d been to get out of his own head. They were way in back, and he’d pulled a chair over to their table and sat down before Sadowski knew he was there. The table was littered with glasses and bottles and, for no apparent reason, a map of greater L.A. Sadowski looked startled, and Burt quickly folded up the map; the two other guys just sat there, as if waiting to see what was supposed to happen next.
“Captain Greer,” Sadowski blurted out, “where’d you come from?”
“The bar.”
Sadowski said, “Yeah, cool. You remember Burt?”
Burt just regarded Greer with stony silence. There goes my membership in the Sons of Liberty, Greer thought.
“And these are Tate and Florio.”
Greer nodded. “What’s this? A new-members outing?”
“Uh, kind of.”
Greer couldn’t resist. “What was the map for? You looking to build a new clubhouse somewhere?”
“You got it,” Burt said. “Something with a pool and a Jacuzzi.”
Sadowski laughed nervously and said, “Yeah, Greer, see? You’ll be sorry you didn’t join when you had the chance.”
Tate and Florio—two beefy guys who looked to Greer like they worked out a lot—kept their eyes down and their mouths shut. Greer started to get the sense that he’d interrupted some top-secret operation. Which made him want to press their buttons all the more.
“You know, you may want to keep your clubhouse out of the east side,” Greer said. “Too many spics. And South Central, I don’t need to tell you, that’s all black. Definitely not a good place to hang. I see you guys more on the west side of town—maybe Beverly Hills, or”—and he cut a glance at Sadowski—“Bel-Air.”
“Thanks for your input,” Burt said, leaning forward in his chair, “but why don’t you stuff it up your ass?”
Now Tate and Florio apparently knew how things stood, and they, too, glared at Greer. One of them—Greer couldn’t remember which was which—had a fresh patch of gauze on his bare forearm. Greer was just about to ask to see the tattoo, when everybody’s eyes moved to his right. Greer didn’t have to guess why.
“How was my set?” Ginger asked coyly as she slipped onto Sadowski’s lap.
The two newbies started falling all over themselves to tell her how terrific she was—Greer couldn’t tell whether they were trying to make an impression on her or, oddly enough, on Sadowski—and Burt and Greer just held each other’s gaze. It could have gotten ugly if Ginger—wearing just a purple bra and G-string—hadn’t said, “Hey, Derek, want another lap dance?”
Greer wouldn’t have said yes under any circumstances—besides, he didn’t have the money—but it pissed him off, nonetheless, when Sadowski said, “No, baby, I want you to get to know these new friends of mine.” He formally introduced Florio, with the bandage, and Tate, and even though they looked a little surprised that Sadowski would be encouraging them to get their rocks off with his girlfriend, Florio let himself be guided out of his chair and back toward the Blue Room.
Greer stayed put. There was just something about knowing he wasn’t welcome there that made him want to stay. Burt stayed, too, with the kind of smile on his face that said he’d just as soon kick your ass.
Greer ordered another Jack on the rocks.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
ON THE MORROW, I shall die.
Even in the hot air of the backyard, Beth felt a chill run down her spine. For many centuries, these words had been hidden, secretly stashed beneath an ivory and sapphire tombstone. And she—right now—was the first person to read them.
And these were the first words that she read.
The printouts from the computer translation program were designed to be read laterally, with one-third of the page on the left devoted to an actual facsimile of the original Latin in which the letter had been composed, the middle column a clear rendering of what those graphemes or characters probably were, and the right side providing the best approximate translation of the meaning. Many of the passages were asterisked and numbered, indicating that the supplemental pages at the back would include, where necessary, more extensive alternative readings—sometimes because the ancient text was faded and/or indecipherable, and sometimes because the complex structure of the passage had left too many questions for easy analysis. Computers were fine for rote work, but they had no sense of literary style.
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