Mortal Faults

11

Shanker was in the garage when he saw the Man enter the waiting room of his shop. The Man-that was how Shanker thought of him. To everyone else he was Congressman Jack Reynolds, but to Ron Shanker he would always be the Man.

He’d been talking to a pimply red-haired kid about rejetting the carbs on his Yamaha, one of those riceburners Shanker hated. But what the hell, business was business, and with the Mexicans crowding him on all sides, he needed all the business he could get. The Mexicans wouldn’t come to him, of course. They knew about the war three years ago, and although a truce was now in effect, it didn’t mean the two sides were friendly.

Anyway, he couldn’t keep the Man waiting, especially not in the crappy little room at the front of the shop, a room whose sole amenity was an ancient coffeemaker that dripped poisonous sludge into a stained carafe. He handed off the red-haired kid to one of his mechanics, telling him to drain the gas tank before starting the tune-up because the bike had been in storage and the gas was old. Then he headed into the outer room.

“Jack, how’s it hanging?” He extended a large hand and felt it gripped by the Man’s crushing fist. “What brings you here?”

“Business.” He said it in the unmistakable way that meant trouble.

Shanker nodded. “Let’s go into my office.”

He led the Man through the shop, past the Dynotest room where a Harley was being run through its RPM range. Around him rang the screams of power tools, mixing with the casual profanities of his three mechanics. All of them puffed cigarettes, the burning ends glowing like red eyes behind veils of smoke.

His office was down a short hall, past the stinkhole washroom that had needed a good cleaning for at least six months. The wall of the hallway was decorated with cycle calendars sent to his shop by manufacturers of tools and engine parts. Most of them displayed the wrong month, having been turned to whatever page featured the best artwork-the artwork in question consisting of color photos of busty, nearly nude, creatively tattooed women draped over motorcycles.

Reynolds entered the office, and Shanker followed, careful to shut and lock the door. He noticed that the Man did him the courtesy of sitting in the visitor’s chair rather than stationing himself behind the desk. They both knew he could sit anywhere he pleased.

The office was small and smelled of carpet cleaner. An air conditioner rattled in the window frame, working hard against waves of August heat.

Shanker settled into the desk chair and tried not to look scared. It was tough to do, because the Man was one sprung motherfucker. He’d known the Man for a long time, and he’d been scared of him for nearly as long. And Ron Shanker was a guy who didn’t scare easy-he had the scars on his hide to prove it, battle scars from street combat.

“What can I do ya for?” he asked with a weak, shit-eating grin.

Reynolds ignored the question. “How’s business?”

The inquiry took Shanker by surprise. The Man never made small talk with him.

“Picking up,” Shanker said. “Not bad.”

“I guess our economic policies are working.”

“Yeah, sure.” Shanker didn’t have a clue what economic policies his congressman had voted for.

“How’s the market on the streets?”

“I seen better. Coke’s down, but this designer shit, like Ecstasy, is still pretty hot. And speed. Speed is always in demand.”

“Speed kills,” Reynolds said with a slight smile.

Shanker got the joke. It was what they used to say when they went out riding-and having said it, they would crank their bikes into gear and bust every speed limit, flashing past stop signs, flying through red lights. Because while they knew that speed kills, they didn’t believe they could die. They’d been young.

Shanker knew better now. Like the Man, he was past fifty. He’d seen people die, and he knew how real it was.

“Any trouble from the cholos?” Reynolds asked.

“Not as long as we stay on our turf and they stay on theirs. Fucking taco benders are basically cowards. All bullshit, no action.”

“I guess you ought to know. You get to see enough of them.”

“Too many. Goddamn border monkeys spit out kids as regular as taking a crap. Hey, I got a good one for you. How many Mexicans does it take to grease an axle?” He paused before delivering the punch line. “One, if you hit ’im just right.”

Reynolds laughed. It was good to hear him laugh. The two of them used to laugh all the time.

“I don’t think I’ll be using that one in any of my speeches,” Reynolds said. “So, no new hostilities?”

“Some hassles, you know. Guys going at it, trying to prove what big balls they got. Nothing major. Not since the Westminster Avenue thing.” Down on Westminster three years ago, Shanker’s guys had gotten into it with a crew of Mexishits. Well, actually El Salvadorans, but they were all Mexishits in the end. One of Shanker’s men bought it, but the cholos lost four of their own, plus another who was busted up so badly he would never pick lettuce again. After that, the truce had been called.

“Well, I’m glad you’re still making out. Even so, I don’t suppose you’d object if I send a little extra business your way.”

“I can always use more business,” Shanker said cautiously.

“Right now I can use your services.”

“Like what, as a for-instance?”

“Like removing somebody who’s become a problem.”

“Okay. I can get that done.”

“Now.”

“When you say now…”

“I mean today. This afternoon.”

“In broad daylight?”

“People die in the daytime. If your crew goes in fast and hard, they can get away before anybody knows what’s happening.”

“It would be better to wait until dark.”

“I’m not waiting. I want this individual blipped immediately. That a problem?”

“No problem. I just wish you’d come to me sooner. It’s good to do a little preliminary scouting, you know, check out the territory.”

“I just got the address a half hour ago,” Reynolds said, “while I was on my way here.”

“Oh.” Shanker thought about this. “You were already coming? What would you have done if you didn’t have the address when you got here?”

“I would have waited. I put my best man on it, and I have confidence in him. I always have confidence in the people I work with. They never let me down.”

He said it with a emphasis that let Shanker know how important it was not to let Jack Reynolds down.

“So where do we find this individual?” Shanker asked.

“Address in the Valley.”

“Who are we dealing with here? I mean, is this a hardened target-security protection, shit like that?”

“It’s a middle-aged woman. She lives alone at this address.”

Reynolds took out an index card, handling it by the edges between thumb and forefinger, and pushed it across the desk. On it was written 903 KEYSTONE DRIVE, the address printed in capitals to make a handwriting comparison impossible. Shanker guessed that Reynolds had never touched the surface of the card. He’d left no prints.

“I can get it done,” Shanker said. He didn’t touch the card either.

“What’ll it cost?”

“Forget it. Gratis.”

“I’ll pay. What’s the going rate?”

“It’s just her? Just this one woman?”

“For now.”

Shanker hesitated, wondering how much he should ask for. Too much, and he might make the Man angry. Too little, and he would only be cheating himself.

“Five grand,” he said.

Reynolds nodded. “I’ll pay in cash when the job is done. Unless you need a deposit?”

This had to be a joke. Even if it wasn’t, Shanker found himself laughing. “Deposit? What, are you shitting me? No way.”

He kept laughing, though there was nothing really funny about it. Except that it was funny-the whole routine they were going through, the scene they had acted out. They both knew Shanker would do whatever he was told, whether or not he was paid. They both knew Shanker was in no position to disappoint Jack Reynolds. And they both knew what happened to people who did disappoint him. Joe Ferris, for instance.

Joe had made the mistake of trying to blackmail the Man back when Reynolds was just getting started in the DA’s office. Ferris had dirt on him-some small-time illegal shit Reynolds had done as a teenager-and he threatened Reynolds with career-killing exposure unless he received a monthly stipend, a lien on Reynolds’ income. Reynolds played along, paying him off for five or six months, until Joe got careless and allowed himself to be drawn into a private rendezvous with the Man. By then he thought he’d broken Reynolds down, made him his bitch.

Jack Reynolds was no one’s bitch. The next day Joe Ferris was found dead in a vacant lot, his body mutilated in awful ways, all of which predated his expiration. The police never caught the killer and, given Ferris’s rap sheet, didn’t make much of an effort. But Shanker knew who had done it. And he knew that before he died, Joe Ferris had given up every piece of evidence that could have been used against Reynolds. No one could have held out against the methods that had been used, the terrible ingenuity employed.

The Man was older now, but he hadn’t mellowed. He’d filled out his suits a little, polished his act, but if you stripped all that away, he was still a fighter who knew only the law of the barrio-to defend your turf, accept no disrespect, and show no leniency to your enemies, ever.

“No deposit then,” Reynolds said when Shanker had gotten his laughter under control.

“I’ll put my best crew on it,” Shanker promised.

“Good. Let me know when it’s done.”

Reynolds started to rise. Shanker risked a question. “You said there was only one person-for now. Does that mean there’s another one, for later?”

“Yes.” Reynolds looked away. “Another woman. Younger than this one. Harder to get at. Harder to take down.”

“Gimme her address,” Shanker said, eager to please. “My crew’ll pop her, too.”

“One thing at a time. This other woman has to be approached with care. And…” He let his words fade away.

Shanker waited, knowing the Man would tell him if he meant to.

“And when she’s taken care of, I want to be there.”

“Okay.” Shanker drew out the two syllables in an unasked question.

“I hired her, and she quit on me. Called me a liar.” Reynolds turned to him, and something in his face made Shanker almost flinch. “I don’t like that.”

“Okay,” Shanker said again, quietly.

Reynolds looked past him into some invisible distance. “I’ll be teaching her a lesson in loyalty.”

“You can teach her today, if you want.”

“Not today.” Reynolds smiled. His voice was low, the voice of a man speaking to himself. “Abby can wait. Sometimes the waiting is half the pleasure of it. You know what I mean?”

He didn’t. “Sure.”

“When I need this other matter addressed, you’ll be able to arrange it, I’m certain.”

“Absolutely.”

“And I’ll pay another five grand. With a bonus if she lasts through the night.”

“That’s very generous.” Shanker was thinking of Joe Ferris, who had lived for four to six hours according to the autopsy, though for the last hour or two he had been blind, deaf, unable to speak or move, capable only of feeling pain.

Reynolds stood. “I’ll let myself out.” Suddenly he was a charmer again, a neighborhood guy. “Great to see you, Ron. You haven’t changed a bit.”

“You too,” Shanker managed. “We gotta get together for dinner sometime.”

“Count on it,” the Man said, knowing as well as Shanker that there would be no dinner, which was just as well, because Shanker never had any appetite in Reynolds’ presence.

The door closed after Reynolds, and Shanker sank back in his chair. He thought about the two women. The second one, especially, the one Reynolds had called Abby. She’d walked out on a business arrangement, he said. Insulted him, too. Insulted the Man.

That hadn’t been smart. Whoever she was, this Abby didn’t have a clue who she was dealing with. She would find out, though.

Just like Joe Ferris did.