Blood Hunt

  “Nobody strips a vehicle quite like a kid from the projects,” Dedman said. “Damned clever mechanics, too. Here’s the current options.” He waved a basketball player’s arm along a line of a dozen dusty specimens, any of which would be perfect for Reeve’s needs. He wanted a plain car, a car that wouldn’t stand out from the crowd. These cars had their scars and war wounds—a chipped windshield here, a missing fender there, a rusty line showing where a strip of chrome had been torn off the side doors, a sill patched with mastic and resprayed.

  “Take your pick,” Dedman said. “All one price.”

  Reeve settled for a two-door Dodge Dart with foam-rubber suspension. It was dull green, the metallic sheen sanded away through time. Dedman showed him the engine (“reliable runner”), the interior (“bench seat’ll come in handy at Lover’s Point”), and the trunk. Reeve nodded throughout. Eventually, they went to Dedman’s office to clinch the deal. Reeve got the feeling Dedman didn’t want the project kids, no matter what their mechanical skills, to see any money changing hands. Maybe it would give them ideas.

  The office was in a ramshackle cinder-block building, but surprised Reeve by being immaculately clean, bright, air-conditioned, and high-tech. There was a large black leather director’s chair behind the new-looking desk. Dedman draped a sheet over the chair before sitting, so as not to dirty the leather with his overalls. There was a computer on the desk with a minitower hard disk drive. Elsewhere Reeve glimpsed a fax and answering machine, a large photocopier, a portable color TV, even a hot drinks machine.

  “Grab a coffee if you want one,” Dedman said. Reeve pushed two quarters into the machine and watched it deliver a brown plastic cup of brown plastic liquid. He looked around the office again. It had no windows; all the light was electrical. The door, too, was solid metal.

  “I see why you keep it padlocked,” Reeve said. Dedman had undone three padlocks, each one barring a thick steel bolt, to allow them into the office.

  Dedman shook his head. “It’s not to stop the kids seeing what’s in here, if that’s what you’re thinking. Hell, it’s the kids who bring me all this stuff. They get it from their older brothers. What am I supposed to do with a computer or a facsimile?” Dedman shook his head again. “Only they’d be hurt if I didn’t look like I appreciated their efforts.”

  Reeve sat down and put the cup on the floor, not daring to sully the surface of the desk. He reached into his pocket for a roll of dollars. “I’m assuming you don’t take credit cards,” he said.

  “Your assumption is correct. Now, there’s no paperwork, okay? I don’t like that shit.” Dedman wrote something on a sheet of paper. “This is my name, the address here, and the telephone number. Anyone stops you, the cops or anybody, or if you’re in a crash, the story is you borrowed the car from me with my blessing.”

  “Insurance?”

  “It’s insured.”

  “And if I break down?”

  “Well”—Dedman sat back in his chair—“for another thirty, you get my twenty-four-hour call-out service.”

  “Does it stretch as far as San Diego?”

  Dedman looked at the roll of notes. “I guess that wouldn’t be a problem. That where you’re headed?”

  “Yes. So how much do I owe you?”

  Dedman appeared to consider this, then named a figure Reeve found comfortably low. Reeve counted out the bills and made to hand them over, but paused.

  “The Dart isn’t hot, is it?”

  Dedman shook his head vehemently. “No, sir, it’s aboveboard and legal.” He took the bills and counted them, finding the sum satisfactory. He looked at Reeve and smiled. “I never rent a hot car to a tourist.”

  Dedman had warned Reeve that he might get lost a few times on his way out of Los Angeles, an accurate assessment of Reeve’s first hour and a half in his new car. He knew all he had to do was follow the coast, eventually picking up I-5, but finding the coast was the problem initially, and keeping to it proved a problem later. The freeway system around Los Angeles was like a joke God was playing on the human brain. The more Reeve focused his mind, the less sense things made. Eventually he let his eyes and mind drift into soft focus, and found himself miraculously on the right road, heading the right way. He wasn’t on the coast, he was inland on I-5, but that was fine. I-5 was fine.

  He had both windows open and wished he had a radio. One of Dedman’s mechanics had offered him one, installation included, for fifty bucks, but it would’ve meant hanging around the breaking yard for another hour or so, and Reeve had been keen to get going. Now he wished he’d taken the teenager up on the offer. Everything about the Dart was fine except the axles. The steering wheel juddered in his hands at speeds above fifty, and it felt like the problem led directly from the axles, either front or back. He hoped a wheel didn’t spin off and roll away ahead of him.

  Once on the interstate, it was a quick run to San Diego. He came off near the airport and took Kettner Boulevard into the downtown district. He wanted a different hotel from last visit, and something more central, something much closer to the CWC building. His first choice, the Marriott, had rooms. Reeve swallowed hard when told the price, but was too tired to go looking anywhere else—the previous night had been a long one, after all. He took his bag up to the room; pulled open the curtains, flooding the room with light and a spectacular view of the bay; and sat down on the bed.

  Then he picked up the telephone and rang Eddie Duhart.

  He didn’t identify himself. He just asked, “What’s happening?”

  Duhart couldn’t wait to tell him. “Everything’s happening! Allerdyce is running around like there’s a cactus up his ass and all the proctologists are in Hawaii. He knows something happened to him last night, only he doesn’t know what.”

  “He’s back to himself?”

  “Seems to be. First thing he did was sack the bodyguards. Then he decided that was too lenient, so they’re back on the payroll till he can find a worse fate. Next he phoned for a vet and a van to take away the carcass.”

  “But he doesn’t remember any details from last night?”

  “Not a one. Man, I should get my hands on some of that stuff. He’s spent all day trying to put together the pieces. You should hear him. Man is he wild! He dropped into a private hospital, checked in as an emergency. He wanted them to run tests on him. He’s been doing everything. He thought maybe he’s been hypnotized, so he’s got a hypnotherapist coming over to the house to try to get him out of it.”

  “Hmm, he may have stumbled onto something.”

  “You think the hypnotist can help him remember?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never heard of anyone trying it before.”

  “Christ, I hope he doesn’t remember. He’s been to my apartment!”

  “Don’t fret, Eddie. Has he been into the office?”

  “No, and nothing from the bugs in Dulwater’s office either, except that whoever he shares the space with has a flatulence problem.”

  “Allerdyce hasn’t tried contacting Dulwater?”

  “Well, he’s made some calls and not gotten an answer; maybe he’s been trying to catch him.”

  “And he hasn’t contacted the police?”

  Duhart clucked. “No, sir, no cops.”

  “Which tells you something.”

  “Yeah, it tells me a man like Jeffrey Allerdyce doesn’t need cops. He knows someone broke into his house last night; it won’t be long before he gets a gang in to sweep for clues. They’ll find the bugs.”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “How are you doing anyway?”

  “Fine.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Best you don’t know. Remember, if . . . when the bugs are found, I want you to lie low, okay? That’s the point at which you drop the investigation.”

  “Yeah, you said.”

  “I mean it. Allerdyce will be cagier than ever. He’ll know he’s being watched. Just step back and leave it alone.”

  “And then what?”


  “Wait for me to get back to you. You’ve got other clients, right? Other cases you could be working on?”

  “Sure, but I could work till I was a hundred and seventy, I’d never get another case like this. Hey, what if I need to contact you?”

  “I’ll phone twice a day, morning and evening.”

  “Yeah, but —”

  Reeve broke the connection. He wasn’t sure he’d ever call Duhart again.

  There was a low late-afternoon sun beaming in on downtown San Diego, casting shadows between the blocks and lighting the windows of the buildings. The streets were busy with shoppers on their way home, standing sag-shouldered at bus and trolley stops. No office workers—this was the weekend. Reeve had an espresso in a coffee shop right across the street from the Co-World Chemicals building. There was an office-supply store next door to the coffee shop. It sold computers and other machines, plus mobile communications equipment. A cheap sign in the window said that it rented, too.

  Reeve had rented a cellular phone. It wasn’t much bigger than the palm of his hand. He’d put it on his credit card and handed over some cash as a deposit. The man in the store hadn’t been too bothered about Reeve’s lack of credentials. Maybe that was because he dealt with a lot of foreign business. Maybe it was because he knew he could always cancel Reeve’s personal cell phone number, negating the little black telephone altogether. Hookup to the system was immediate.

  So Reeve sat in the coffee shop and punched in some numbers. He tried Eddie Cantona’s home first, but there was no answer. With the coffee shop’s phone book in front of him on the window-length counter, he tried a couple of the bars Cantona had said he used. At the second bar, whoever had answered the call growled Cantona’s name. Eddie Cantona picked up the telephone.

  “Hello?” It sounded like he’d said “yellow.”

  “So they let you out?”

  Cantona sucked in breath, and his voice dropped to a mumble. “Soon as you left town. That nice detective said I could go, but not to go talking to strange men anymore.”

  “This was Mike McCluskey?”

  “The same. Where the fuck are you?”

  “You think anyone’s keeping tabs on you?”

  “Well, hell, it wouldn’t be hard. I only knew you a coupla days first time around, and how long did it take you to find me?”

  “Three calls. This is the third.”

  “There you go. I got to tell you, Gordon, I’ve been drinking steadily and seriously for some days now. My excuse is that it’s in memory of Jim—a one-man movable wake. But maybe it’s because I took a jolt myself.”

  “I don’t want to get you mixed up in anything. I just want to hire you for a day or so.”

  “Oh, is that all?” Cantona said, slipshop voice full of sarcasm. “Maybe you didn’t hear what I just said.”

  “I heard.”

  The voice dropped low again. “I was scared back there, Mr. Reeve.”

  “I’m not asking you to do anything dangerous.” Reeve had his free hand cupped around his mouth and the mouthpiece. Nobody in the coffee shop seemed interested in him; they were buying takeout cups for the walk to the bus stop. Traffic rumbled past, and the air-conditioning rattled like teeth in a glass. Reeve was in no danger of being overheard. “I just want you to sit in a coffee shop for a while. I want you to keep watch. If you see a man answering the description I give you, call me. That’s it.”

  “You want me to follow him?”

  “Nope.”

  “You just want to know when he leaves this building?” Cantona sounded far from convinced.

  “Well, I’d rather know when he goes in. Come on, who else in this town can I trust? The only danger you’d be in is from caffeine poisoning, and they do a great decaf espresso here.”

  “No liquor license?”

  “No liquor license. Hey, I’d want you sober.”

  “I don’t work drunk!”

  “Okay, okay. Listen, what do you say?”

  “Can we meet? Maybe talk about it over a beer?”

  “You know that’s not a good idea.”

  “In case they’re watching me, right?”

  “Watching you or watching me. Safer if we don’t meet.”

  “You’re right. Okay, let’s give it a stab.”

  This would not have been Reeve’s favored choice of words.

  He gave the details over the phone to Cantona—once Cantona had located some paper and a pen that worked. He told Cantona the address of the coffee shop, gave him its opening hours, and then described Kosigin, closing his eyes and picturing the photographs in Allerdyce’s file. On the off chance, he described Jay, too. Finally, he gave Cantona his mobile number, and checked for him—Cantona was sobering fast—not only that there was a public pay phone in the coffee shop, but that it was working, too.

  “Oh-seven-thirty hours,” Cantona said. “I’ll be in position. Guess I’d better go home now and dry out.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Hey, you’d do the same for me, right?”

  Reeve wasn’t sure about that. His next call was to the San Diego Police Department. McCluskey wasn’t in the office, and they said they couldn’t patch any calls through to him.

  “Well, can you get a message to him? He’ll want to hear it, believe me.”

  “Go ahead, I’ll see what I can do.” The woman had a high, whining voice, utterly without personality.

  “Tell him Gordon Reeve would like to speak to him.” He spelled his surname for her. It took three goes. “I’ll keep trying.”

  “Sure.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  The young woman in charge of the coffee shop was relieved by the next shift. She seemed furious about something, maybe the fact that she’d been working on her own and they’d been really busy. Two people her own age—one male, one female—took her place, and soon had a rhythm going. One of them took the orders and the money, the other worked the machine. When the line had been served, the female walked over to Reeve with a pot of coffee and asked if he wanted a refill. Reeve smiled at her and shook his head, then watched her retreat, clearing a couple of the cramped tables as she did. He felt touched by her offer. He knew a lot of places in the United States had the same policy, the offer of coffee refills, but it seemed an act of kindness, too, and he hadn’t been close to much kindness recently. He could feel defenses inside him, barricades he’d hastily erected. They tottered for a moment, but held. He thought of Bakunin and Wagner again, side by side on the barricades of Dresden. The anarchist Bakunin, and Wagner—the friend of Nietzsche. Nietz-sche: the self-proclaimed first amoralist. When necessary, when events dictated, they had fought alongside each other. The anarchists would call that proof of the theory of mutual aid. They would say it repudiated Nietzsche’s own theory, that the will to power was everything. Opposites reconciled, yes, but momentarily. Look at the role of Russia in World War Two: what happened afterwards was a descent into mistrust and selfishness. Just be-cause you were allies didn’t mean you didn’t hate each other’s guts.

  “Jay,” Reeve said quietly, staring at nothing beyond the smudged glaze of the window, the words “Donuts ’n’ Best Coffee” stenciled on it in muted red.

  Then he tried McCluskey again, and got through to the same woman.

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Reeve. He said for you to give me your number there and he’ll get back to you.”

  “No,” Reeve said, and broke the connection again. He got up to leave the coffee shop, and realized by the stiffness in his legs how long he’d been sitting there. As he passed the cash register, he saw a glass tumbler beside it, half-filled with tips, nothing bigger than a quarter. He reckoned the shifts were college kids, and pushed a dollar into the glass.

  “Hey, have a nice evening,” the young woman said. She was choosing some music for the tape machine.

  “You too.”

  Reeve crossed at the lights with the other pedestrians and checked his reflection in the windshield of a stopped bus. He did
n’t look any different from anyone else. He kept pace with a short woman in clacking high heels, so it almost looked like they were together but didn’t know each other real well. He was half a step behind her as they passed the steps up to the glass revolving door, which led into the foyer of the CWC building. Above the revolving door, the CWC symbol was etched into the glass. It looked like a child had taken a line for a walk, so that a single doodle managed to spell out the letters CWC, like the CNN logo on a bad night.

  The woman scowled at him eventually, figuring he was trying to pick her up by mime alone, and at the next street crossing, he took a right as she went straight ahead. It was another half a block before he realized someone was keeping half a pace behind him. He didn’t look around, didn’t make eye contact; he kept his gaze to the pavement, and that way could watch the man’s feet: polished brown shoes with leather soles, charcoal suit trousers above them. Reeve took another right, into a quieter street. The shoes and trousers kept with him.

  Must have picked me up outside the CWC building, he thought. It had to be Jay or one of his men. Thing was, they were too close for it to be mere surveillance. They didn’t just want to follow him, they wanted contact. Reeve started fast, shallow breathing, oxygenating his blood, and loosened his shoulders, tightening his fists. He walked briskly, hoping he could get his retaliation in first. A couple of pedestrians were coming towards him. He stared hard at them as though trying to see into their souls. He was seeking accomplices. But all the couple saw was an angry man, and they moved out of his way.

  It was as good a time as any. Reeve stopped abruptly and swiveled on his heels.

  He hadn’t noticed that the man in the charcoal suit had slowed his pace a few yards back, and was now standing still, seemingly at ease, his hands out in appeasement. He was a tall man with slick black hair, thinning at the temples. He had a sharp face and sallow cheeks, and the slightly narrowed eyes of one who sported contact lenses.

  “This is just where I’d have chosen,” the man was saying, “for the showdown, the confrontation.”

  “What?” Reeve was looking around upwards, looking for an assassin’s gunsight, a slow-moving car with tinted windows, looking for danger. But all there was was this tall well-dressed man, who looked like he’d be comfortable trying to sell you a spare vest to go with your suit.