of skin with a pair of pliers. Payne screamed horribly as Cole tore his skin.
Frederick covered his ears.
"Stop it. Stop screaming like that."
Payne and Cole went away, but it took a while for Frederick to calm. He was scared and sickened by what Cole had done to Payne. Frederick wanted to run, but he couldn't leave with an assassin like Cole on his trail. Cole wouldn't stop unless you stopped him. Frederick had to stop Cole right now, and he had to make him PAY FOR PAYNE.
Frederick didn't give it another thought. He considered going back into the Home Away Suites to punish that smart-mouth kid, but instead he changed shirts again, then drove back across the street to the 24/7. He used their pay phone to call information.
"What city?"
"Los Angeles."
"Listing?"
"Elvis Cole."
"I don't show an individual by that name, but we have the Elvis Cole Detective Agency."
"That will do."
Frederick 's heart calmed as he copied the information. Having a clear purpose made him happy. So did the thought of avenging Payne's murder.
22
The late-afternoon traffic inched out of downtown L.A. Poorly marked one-way streets fed-with all the organization of a nest of snakes-into infrequent (and poorly marked) on-ramps. The feeder streets were stop-motion parking lots, advancing one frame at a time. Pedestrians moved faster; cyclists blew by at warp speed. So much for life in the fast lane.
I felt an edgy, just-on-the-other-side-of-the-door hope in knowing Faustina's true name, and in having an original address. I was anxious to follow up, even though I knew the odds were slight that they would lead anywhere. But still I thought about it, and maybe that's why I did not see the man approaching. "Dude, hey, what's going on?"
He was buffed out with muscles, a shaved head, and hot-chrome wraparound sunglasses. He had approached from the rear on my blind side while I simmered in the motionless traffic, just another pedestrian going with the flow before he stepped off the curb. He was smiling, so the people in the surrounding cars would think we were friends. First glance, he appeared to be carrying a paper bag. Then I realized his hand was inside the bag.
He made sure I clocked the bag, then opened the door with his free hand, and slipped in beside me. The bag pointed at me, down low in his lap so the surrounding motorists couldn't see. He was still smiling.
"Keep both hands on the wheel, motherfucker."
They say "motherfucker" when they're tough.
"It's a four-speed. I gotta shift."
He glanced at my shifter. His smile wavered, like his whole line about me keeping my hands on the wheel was ruined.
"So one hand on the shifter, one on the wheel, smart man. You know what's in this motherfucking bag?"
"Your hand?"
"A fuckin' atom bomb. You do anything but what I say, it'll pop in your guts."
"One on the wheel, one on the shifter. I hear you."
"Look in your mirror. See the white Toyo two back?"
A young woman in a green Lexus was directly behind us, but I could make out a white Toyota behind her. Two men were in the Toyo.
"Are they with us?"
"Brother, they are so with us they got beachfront up your ass. If you even think about fucking with me, they will cook off their caps. You understand the word?"
I glanced over at him, and wasn't impressed. He acted tough with his shaved head and gym-rat muscles, and maybe he was, but he came across like an actor who won fights without sweating because he lived in a make-believe world where every woman was last year's Miss June.
I said, "How could I not understand, them having beachfront up my ass? Now that I'm scared, who are you and what do you want?"
"Golden's computer."
I glanced in the mirror again. Neither of the men in the Toyo appeared to be Golden, but I couldn't be sure.
"Do you think I have it with me here in the car? I don't have it."
"Where is it?"
"With a friend in Culver City. I gave it to him for safekeeping."
"Fine. We'll pick it up from your friend."
"Did Golden send you?"
"Don't worry about it."
"Is he in the Toyota?"
"Let's go see your friend."
He flicked the atom bomb to remind me it might go off, so I shrugged.
"Okay. If that's what you want."
We didn't bother with the freeway; we dropped south out of downtown, and used the surface streets. It was a lot faster. Only an hour and twenty minutes.
When we reached Culver City, I approached the back of the shop through a