Fun and Games

9

They will stop at nothing…. They are ubiquitous

and all-powerful.

—Geoffrey O’Brien, Hardboiled America

ONCE, IN his early twenties, Hardie had an operation to fix a deviated septum. A young nurse with soft skin and pretty eyes held his hand as they wheeled him to the cold, bright operating room. For a moment, Hardie didn’t care that his face was about to be mauled with sharp knives. At that moment he was under a warm blanket and holding a young girl’s hand and then she let go and somebody asked him to count backward from ten but he couldn’t even remember saying nine and then he was blinking and waking up and the pretty girl’s hand was still holding his and she smiled and said, see that wasn’t so bad?

That’s what it felt like now—he had a dim memory of being with a pretty girl.

But now that he was awake, he saw there was no pretty girl.

He was wrapped up in black plastic.

Actually, a body bag.

And with that realization came another: Hardie couldn’t get air into his lungs.

There was no air in here at all, like he was a kid hiding under a thick blanket, and the boogeyman was outside, and as much as he wanted a lungful of clean, fresh air he didn’t dare lower the blanket.

Frantic, Hardie’s fingers searched for a seam, a zipper, something, anything. But his fingers didn’t appear to be working right. Finally his fingertips found the opposite end of the zipper, the one without the little thing you pull on. He pushed it with his index finger, trying to get it to move. Come on. His finger trembled. He pushed harder. He needed air. If he didn’t get air soon, he would pass out again. And this time he probably wouldn’t wake up. Hardie pushed again. The zipper moved a quarter of an inch. It was enough.

He jabbed his finger through the opening and ripped downward, which killed his chest, but it didn’t matter, because his chest would really fucking be out of luck if he didn’t get any air into his lungs.

Number of accidental suffocations per year: 3,300.

Hardie sucked in oxygen greedily, then pulled the plastic womb down over his head, then shoulders, then body. Hardie realized where he was. By the front door. He’d passed out here and somebody had put him in a plastic body bag. That same somebody had just left him here, like garbage waiting to go out. Hardie didn’t know whether to be pissed or insulted.

Hardie didn’t know what time it was—power was still out. He couldn’t even hazard a guess as to how much time had passed. Sun was still up.

He listened; the house was eerily silent.

And then he saw he wasn’t the only thing on the floor.

Next to him, in another black plastic bag, was something suspiciously body-shaped. And next to that bag was another black bag, too small for a body but big enough for, say, a human head.

Hardie opened the zipper on the bigger bag first, fully expecting to see the face of a famous actress. In which case he would owe her a serious apology. Because she was right. Hardie should never have opened the door. He should have stayed hidden in the bathroom.

Instead, it was a guy inside, and it was a fuzzy second or two before Hardie realized, oh shit, the delivery dude. Somehow they’d dosed them both and wrapped them up in body bags faster than you could say duck, you suckas. Which meant that the small black plastic bag probably contained his luggage. Maybe his shoes.

The house was utterly still. Was somebody in the house on another floor? Or were they outside, getting ready to walk back inside at any moment?

They.

Hardie climbed to his feet, his joints popping, head swimming. He half expected to look down and see his body still there, proving he was dead and this was an out-of-body experience. Next he’d see a bright light up on the ceiling and hear some short, pudgy lady telling him not to go into it. But no. There was no body on the floor; Hardie was still using it.

A few steps forward, toward the front door.

Just go, he told himself. Don’t think. Go. Walk away from the house. Remember, they stole your car. So you have to walk. Or run. Running would be good. I mean, what else are you going to do—stay?

Stay and do what?

You can barely breathe. You’ve been beaten and impaled and sprayed with some knockout shit and left for dead. The smart thing to do is not be the hero. Remember what that got you last time? It damn near got your stupid ass killed, that’s what. It got everybody else’s asses killed. You’re never going to forgive yourself for that, and you know what? You shouldn’t.

So what are you going to do? March back inside, charge through the house, your chest bleeding and your head still swimming, to try and play the hero? They’ve probably already got her. She’s probably in a plastic bag, just like you were a few seconds ago. They’re just cleaning up, because they’re anal killer types who don’t want to leave any forensic evidence. When they finish, they’ll come back up for you. So now’s a good time to leave. You want to be a hero? Leave the house and run until you find a cop. Report everything. Let the professionals handle it.

Get out. Get out now, you idiot. While you still can.

What are you waiting for?

Hardie took a few steps toward the front door, then froze. Probably a bad move to open that up. Last time he opened it, he had ended up in a body bag. Only insane people repeat an action and expect a different result. Insane people, and Hardie’s mother-in-law.

But somebody had to walk into the house. Somebody had to zip up Hardie and Delivery Dude into body bags. Somebody was making little creepy fucking noises downstairs. What did they do, go across the roof and in through the back deck doors?

Which actually wasn’t a bad idea.

Climbing up onto a roof with a chest wound, a barely functioning left hand, and a head full of junk—all while trying not to make a sound? Not recommended.

Hardie made it up, anyway, using a metal hose fixture as a foothold. He put his upper arms on the slanted tile roof, then swung his left knee up and caught the edge. Heaved himself up once; didn’t make it. Heaved again, then rolled over onto the roof. Hardie took a deep breath, then cautiously made it to his feet and started up the slanting roof.

The delivery van was still out front, but someone had moved it off to the side. It sat behind a white van now. Nobody in either vehicle, far as Hardie could tell. Up here he had a better view of the castle up on the hill. He could make out a name, too: smiley, someone had carved into the stone face. There was scaffolding covering the structure; the owner must have work in progress. Nobody in the windows; no signs of life whatsoever.

Hardie turned to face the opposite direction and… hallelujah, the topless chick with the phone was still there. She had a phone. Her mouth was moving. That meant she had service.

Thank you, God.

Please ignore the bad shit I’ve said about you over the years.

Mann, awaiting confirmation, glanced up at the house. This was taking way too long. Her eye burned and itched like fuck. It had been a long night without a break. Time for all of this to be over.

And then she saw him.

Charles Hardie, standing on the roof, looking down at her.

Hardie knew this moment wouldn’t last forever. Any second now the faceless fuckers who’d put him in a body bag could show up, or the woman could go back inside, or an earthquake could start rumbling, or a wildfire could break out… so he had to move now. He could either go back down into the house and do something really stupid and heroic…

Or he could be smart for a chance and call for help.

Be smart, you idiot.

Quietly as he could, he eased himself down the slope of the roof and jumped down to the driveway. He took great care to bend his knees as he landed to cushion the blow. He fell over, anyway. Picked himself up, then scrambled out onto Alta Brea and followed it back down to Durand until he was level with the third floor of the Lowenbruck home. Hardie glanced over at it, wondering if Lane Madden was dead or alive. He couldn’t do anything about that except get to this woman and have her call 911 and wait for the cavalry to arrive.

Right?

Hardie reminded himself:

You’ve been stabbed. You’re in no condition for a close-quarters brawl with god knows how many people.

You are not equipped to save people. You are not in the hero business. Remember, this is what got you in trouble three years ago. You’re no good.

You had thought you might be a hero once, but you were wrong. People stronger and smarter and more ruthless taught you that. You are nothing. You’re one of those people in movies who gets killed in the first act. A nameless hood. Someone the screenwriter didn’t even bother to name.

Don’t pretend to be what you’re not.

Hardie hurriedly stumbled down the path toward the nice naked lady with the phone and braced himself for a scream.

He really, really hoped she wouldn’t scream.

Because if she screamed, then he’d have to somehow convince her to go inside and make the phone call, because those faceless cocksuckers could pop their heads out of a window and start shooting at the both of them. A million bad film-noir scenes flashed through his head—guys slapping their meaty palms over the mouths of screaming dames, their leading-man eyes reassuring them that Hey, I’m the good guy, everything will be okay. Of course, this was not the way it happened in the real world. Hardie fully expected the woman to attempt to bite off his thumb and then knee him in the balls, then go ahead and scream, anyway.

Hardie took a few more quick steps, trying to project the most nonthreatening and peaceable version of himself. Hands out—look, see, no weapons.

The woman remained perfectly still, as if she’d fallen asleep and was completely unaware of the bleeding, trembling man barreling toward her. Not like this kind of thing happens every day in L.A. Or does it?

She continued her conversation. Hardie caught the tail end of it:

“… you know me. I like constant updates. Hang on a second.”

Finally Hardie caught her attention, because she turned her head slowly to face him. It was impossible to read her reaction behind her sunglasses. She said calmly:

“Let me get back to you.”

The woman wiggled a little until she’d propped herself up on her elbows. Her breasts hung full and wide from her tight, athletic frame.

“Uh, miss… please don’t panic. I need you to call the police. It’s an emergency.”

“Hi, Charlie,” the woman said.