White Lies Page 19

  The moment stretched and sweat popped out along Asher's hairline.

  "I got better stuff."

  "Yeah?" Asher gave him a hopeful look. An internal switch flipped, against his will, and he thought about getting high. He might need to for this character. If they pressed him. Didn't that make it all right? He thought of Ellie and Thomas and backed away from the dealer. "No, man. You know what Scott'd do to me if he found out? He's crazy!"

  That got a chuckle from all three of them.

  "You hang at Flavio's, you buy from me."

  "Hang? Now you bein' crazy. I don't hang down here, man." Asher let a little panic creep into the nasally voice he was using.

  "Where's your car?"

  "I got a ride. What's with all the questions? This day just sucks, ya know? I was supposed to go to the clinic for my meds, right? And I hear Scott's lookin for me..." Asher peered out beneath his lashes to see if his statement had any impact. A flicker of disgust passed from the boss to scarface.

  "I gotta go, man. He said to get over there ASAP." Asher shuffled toward the man on his right. He risked a quick glance back at the leader. A nod released the soldier from his stance.

  Asher ducked his head and twitched a shoulder as he shambled away, with the uneasy sense of three sets of eyes watching him.

  Chapter 47

  Asher walked two blocks in character until he felt their scrutiny fade. He turned a corner, jogged down the block and up a cross street. Staying out of sight behind a parked car, he peered back the way he'd come. There was no one following him.

  He stopped for a minute to quiet his pounding heart. The adrenaline buzz drained away making him feel sluggish and heavy. He needed to keep his wits sharp.

  "Ash?"

  Asher turned to face one more burnt bridge. "Randall. This is a surprise."

  His ex-bodyguard had a disapproving frown on his face. "What are you doing here?"

  "It's a long story. I'm sorry, Randall, I'd like to stay and chat, but I got to go."

  Randall grabbed his arm in a not quite painful grip. "The cops came to see me. They said you were clean."

  "I am." Asher tried to pull away, but Randall wasn't done.

  "Then why are you here?"

  "Why are you?" he snapped back at him. Trying to move Randall was like trying to shift granite. Asher needed to get to Scott's before anybody warned him.

  Randall pointed over his shoulder. "I live over there, and I like to eat at this great Brazilian place up there." His features settled into a determined look. "Your turn."

  "I really appreciate your concern." He tried to peel Randall's fingers off his arm. "I do. But this isn't about drugs. I'm looking for Scott." The minute he said it, he knew it was the wrong thing to say.

  "Scott's dead and gone, Ash." Randall pulled him closer. "You stay with me, OK? Have you eaten?"

  "No, Denny lied. Scott's alive, and I need to find him right away." Asher knew he was digging himself in deeper, but he didn't know what else to do.

  "It's OK, man. I got you. You're safe." Randall put a protective and restraining arm around him.

  Arguing with Randall wasn't going to get him anywhere. The bodyguard was adamant and probably outweighed Asher by half his body weight. Part of Asher wanted to give up and surrender to Randall's gentle concern. He fell easily into the old pattern of trust. In an instance, it all seemed foolish and futile. He should give it up and let the police sort it out. What could he possibly accomplish on his own? Acquiescing, he let Randall lead him away. But another part of him resisted covertly. It only took a few steps for a plan to emerged.

  "You're right, I'm starved," Asher said. "Tell me about the restaurant."

  Randall happily gave him an in depth analysis of the menu. Asher didn't listen. The spy noted the landmarks and the undercover cop kept an eye out for gang signs.

  Randall took him to a tiny storefront eatery. The menu was posted on big chalkboards in Spanish, English and Portuguese. The place was poorly lit and noisy with salsa music blasting. Plastic flowers and palm fronds were stapled to the walls in no perceivable pattern. Two short, stocky Latinas greeted Randall as he walked in. The heavy smell of spicy meat reminded Asher it was dinner time.

  "Smells good," Asher said.

  Randall patted him on the shoulder. "A good solid meal'll make you feel better."

  Asher wondered what imagined ills his friend was trying to heal. He appreciated the sentiment, however misguided. It amazed him how many of his friends still wanted to help him. This was just not the right time or place. He made a mental note to contact Randall as soon as this whole thing was done.

  "I'd like to wash my hands," Asher said. Before Randall could object, he pointed towards the menu. "Order me whatever you think is good, OK? Extra spicy beef and beans, maybe some rice?"

  "OK." Randall pointed toward a dark corridor.

  Asher was thinking that was a little too easy. The restroom had no window, so that plan was thwarted. He looked at himself in the mirror as he washed his hands. His face didn't show any change, but he knew there was a difference inside. He'd make it up to Randall later. Right now he needed to find Scott.

  As he came out of the restroom, someone passed him and opened a door he hadn't seen in the gloom. Asher follow him into a storage room that had a rollup door open for deliveries. With a silent apology to his friend, he slipped out and headed back the way they'd come.

  Chapter 48

  A quick glance, in undercover spy mode, gave him the lay of the land. The sun hadn't set, but the street looked dark. The L.A. haze left a layer of grit underfoot and smudged the faces of the buildings. A gust of hot wind made a red and white French fry box cartwheel down the middle of the road, the only spot of color in the whole sad neighborhood. Dusty weeds sprawled limply across squares of dirt dry as the pavement. The houses had chipped paint and sagging porch steps. Halfway down the block, a Victorian grand dame shouldered her way between a pair of new, pink stucco apartment buildings. The old girl's gingerbread was rotting off and the wraparound porch spoke of summers on a different coast. Asher was sure that was the house that he needed.

  As the sky lost light, Asher noticed that only one of the four streetlights flickered to life. Shadows sat on porches and leaned against cars watching him. He sauntered down the street with just enough nonchalance to say he knew where he belonged in this world, but not enough to say he owned it. When he stepped onto the front path of 1385, he felt the shadows turn away. He was no longer their concern. Asher relaxed the tense muscles in his back as he knocked on the door.

  A slender woman opened the door wearing a see-through blouse over a satiny teddy. She stood hip-cocked in the doorway, one hand on the jamb. Smoke trailed from a cigarette held in boney fingers. Her scarlet fingernail polish and long flaxen locks weren't enough to distract Asher's eyes from the crow's feet and frown lines. She was a good decade past her salad days. She looked him over with a predatory look in her eyes.

  "You lost, sweetheart?" Her voice made him think of Larissa, raspy and low.

  "Scott here?" he asked.

  Her calculating expression curled up into surprise. "Well, lookee, lookee! He said he knew ya, and I just never...well.... Damn." She stepped back letting him in.

  Asher walked into a dim space that reeked of cigarettes, pot and old incense with an underlying funk of body odor and mildew. Worn furniture filled a wide room that might have passed as a lobby when this genteel old building had been a guest house. To the right a less than grand staircase led the way to the second floor. The woman gestured and a thickly muscled man appeared out of a dark corner and thumped up the stairs. The only other people in the room were a couple of scantily clad women sitting on a swayback couch with their heads together.

  This house didn't have bars on the windows. That meant either there wasn't anything worth stealing, or it wasn't worth your life to try. The spy reminded him to locate all the possible exits.

  "You sure you wanna do this, hon?" the woman asked him.<
br />
  Asher nodded.

  "Ain't gonna be pretty," she said taking a long drag on her cigarette.

  "He's family."

  She choked out a harsh laugh, smoke sputtered out her nose and mouth. "Oh sweetheart, so was Lizzie Borden. That just don't matter to some folks."

  Asher felt the hair on his neck rising again. "I need some answers."

  "Well, I hope you're bullet proof, cause he's got other plans."

  "HE'S HERE?" The shout echoed through the house. "Get me a gun!" Footsteps thundered overhead in the direction of the stairs.

  Running out the front door would be like flailing in shark-infested waters. Asher headed for the hallway leading deeper into the house. This kind of place always had a back door. The footsteps were closer now.

  The first shot broke a window at the end of the hall as he ducked around the corner.

  "Come back here, you fucker. I'm going to do it myself this time!"

  Asher was thankful for the clarification. Scott really was trying to kill him. That settled it. He flung doors open one after the other: closet, bathroom, bedroom—sort of, kitchen. He fled in to the kitchen startling a stocky old cook and another girl in bedroom attire. With a word of apology, he bolted out the back door.

  He ran into an alley and ducked behind a dumpster. The stench of hot garbage and stale urine was thick enough to feel against his skin. Scott burst out the door. He spun in a half-circle, rapid-fire shots flying in all directions. Asher saw doors shut and curtains pulled all along the alley. He could almost feel people retreating from the war zone.

  "Where are you, you son of a bitch?"

  Scott jerked back and forth, scanning the alley and shooting randomly at walls, dumpsters and an illegally parked car. Asher could hear sirens in the distance. The cavalry was on the way. He needed to keep Scott focused until law enforcement arrived. And stay alive.

  Asher chose the spy to examine his surroundings. The narrow alley was lined with dumpsters for the surrounding businesses and apartment buildings. Shoulder high and on wheels the steel bins presented an intermittent wall dotted with utility poles and yellow steel bollards. It provided an excellent obstacle course for a game of cat and mouse, especially when the cat had an automatic weapon. A single street light, several buildings down, cast the edges of the alley in deep shadow.

  Scott shot each dumpster down the line away from where Asher was hiding. Bullets ricocheted off the thick steel with mechanical squeals. Asher picked up a chunk of broken concrete and threw it at Scott. It glanced off his shoulder. Scott whirled, shooting as he turned, hitting windows, shattering stucco and clanging into the dumpster in front of Asher.

  "You're supposed to be dead. You need to be dead!"

  How many bullets did that gun have? He couldn't remember how many a clip held. Sixteen? Twenty-four? Another bullet hit the dumpster. Asher shoved it forward and squeezed behind the next one. Why didn't the sirens sound any closer?

  Blam, blam, blam. Three more bullets careened off the heavy steel. Asher darted across the alley and behind another dumpster.

  "Come out of there!" Scott shot above the dumpster. The pale brick of an office building shattered, flinging shrapnel into the alley. There was a pause, and Asher thought he heard the sound of a clip being expelled. Then distinctly, another one slammed into place.

  Asher shouldered another dumpster aside, it's wheels screeching against the pavement, and ran around the corner of the office building. It was a dead end, just a shallow alcove for utility boxes. He hunkered down behind the meager cover of a motorcycle as another round of bullets sent brick chips flying. The alcove smelled even stronger of urine, making him gag. He couldn't hear the sirens any more. What if they hadn't been his rescuers? Asher had a moment of dread as he considered how recklessly he'd acted. A bullet ricocheted, hitting the wall behind his head. His heart was pounding, and his mouth was dry. He was a sitting duck the minute Scott came around the corner.

  Headlights flashed across the alley, and there was a screech of brakes. "Drop your weapon!"

  Asher slumped in relief. The cavalry had arrived. It was over.

  But the shooting didn't stop. He risked a look around the corner. Scott had his back to him, shooting at detectives Smythe and Bledsoe, who were using their car as cover. Smythe stood behind her open door. Bledsoe must have been driving He stood on the far side of the car. Both were returning fire as Scott took potshots from behind the dumpster Asher had shoved out of line. Unexpected consequences, his actions had given Scott cover. A spear point of guilt skewered him. At least the detectives were wearing bullet-proof vests.

  This was wrong! Scott was supposed to surrender. This was the cavalry.

  Smythe grunted, falling backwards against the car. She tumbled to the ground. From where he stood, Asher could only see a hand, her shoulder and a bloody, blonde curl.

  White hot fury washed through Asher. "NO!" The scream ripped out of him in a red-misted rage "Not another death!" His voice was drowned out in the report from the guns.

  He worked his way back up the alley, ramming the dumpsters aside like a linebacker. They jutted erratically into the alley like a saw with broken teeth. Smythe's fall replayed in his head with every step: a grunt of pain and the soft thud of flesh on concrete.

  The police car was angled across the alley at a cross street. There was a gap of about ten feet between the last bit of cover and the car. He'd be exposed if he ran to her. A cold calculating voice asked what purpose that would serve. He crouched behind the last bin and assessed the situation. The cop, the pirate and the spy melded. As one they saw where the detective's gun had landed when she fell. He could reach it without leaving safety.

  Blam, blam, blam.

  Scott took out the windshield, a front tire and put a dent in the fender. Bledsoe crouched behind the engine block. Asher could hear him on the radio.

  "Officer down. I repeat, officer down."

  Asher tried to smother the anger that made him want to stand up and nail the bastard with a bullet between the eyes. A very satisfying ending for any story, but he had to be smart about this and not get killed in the process. There were sirens in the distance, but something had to be done now.

  He lay down on the warm, stinking pavement and reached between the wheels of the dumpster. He snagged the barrel with a fingertip and dragged the gun closer. It was solid and heavy in his hand. He hadn't seen this kind before, but it had a trigger, and it was loaded. That was enough. He couldn't hold it in his right hand because of the cast. Didn't matter, he'd fought left-handed for a couple of roles.

  He worked his way back down the alley behind the dumpsters until he was past Scott. Standing up, weapon in hand gave him a terrifying rush. He moved into the open and pointed the gun at Scott.

  "Stop."

  Scott spun, took one look and burst out laughing. "You? You think you can actually do something?"

  "I'll shoot you. Put the gun down."

  Scott laughed harder. "You're dead. You've been dead for years, but someone forgot to tell you." He pointed his gun at Asher's head. "I'll fix that for you."

  The pirate, the spy and a gunslinger took over. Scott fired at almost the same instant. Asher felt the gun buck, heard the twin reports and felt the impact.

  * * *

  When he opened his eyes, he was on his knees, surrounded by cops, guns drawn, barking orders. It didn't make sense. He couldn't get his brain back into gear. Their voices all jumbled together into an incomprehensible roar. Then Detective Bledsoe walked through the wall of angry uniforms. He wasn't wearing his jacket. His white shirt was stained with blood. He held out a blood-smeared hand.

  "Asher, give me the weapon."

  Weapon?

  Asher looked at all the guns pointed at him. Then he registered the weight in his left hand. He held it up, opening his hand and with a flat palm offered it to Bledsoe. The detective passed it off to someone behind him. He helped Asher to his feet and led him toward a mass of emergency vehicles. Blue lights
strobed over the arrow-straight beams of headlights. Everything felt fragmented. Images of gunshots and blood spray repeated in his head.

  Red blood, blue lights, blurred and spun until full dark descended.

  Chapter 49

  Asher woke in a hospital bed. His first thought was that he'd failed to stay sober. Then his eyes focused on the ranks of flower arrangements crowding every surface in the room.

  "Ash?" Ellie leaned over. "How're you feeling?"

  "Confused?" His throat hurt like he'd been screaming for hours.

  "You've been shot in the head," she said with a slightly hysterical giggle. "Just a graze. But you smacked your head pretty hard when you passed out."

  Asher felt for the lump on the back of his head. It was throbbing with his heart beat. His fingers brushed against bandages.

  Ellie took his hand away from its probing. "Don't. Stitches. You need to leave it alone. You've got cuts and bruises from head to toe. George made them bring in a plastic surgeon for this one." She stroked a gentle finger across his eyebrow.

  He struggled to sit. She showed him the bed controls and got him situated. As he moved his limbs, he became aware of all the damage incurred: scraped hand and knees, battered shoulders, a very sore ankle and lots of small cuts from those flying brick chips. A nurse bustled in to poke and prod and check mysterious numbers on various machines. After she left, he took Ellie's hand.

  "Detective Smythe?"

  "She's going to be OK. She got out of surgery about an hour ago. Bullet bounced off the bone. No permanent damage."

  The pressure in his chest eased. "Thank God." Now for the even harder question. "Am I under arrest?"

  "Being an idiot isn't a crime," she said.

  "I killed a man."

  "Who tried to kill you." She touched his forehead. "This graze could have been...a few inches and..." Her voice caught. "Now that you're here, now that you want to be...I almost lost you."

  Asher pulled her against him. Despite the aching muscles and the sting of cuts reopening, he'd never felt so fine. All the characters in his head agreed it was absolutely the right thing to do. The spy and the pirate and all the other incarnations of his imagination became just that. He saw them now as extensions of his own character traits. With Ellie in his arms, he felt he could be anyone he wanted to be and just Asher the actor was good enough.