The Big Enchilada
desk.
“Who told you that? Domingo? Well, of course. He knows I’m after him. He’s just making sure that you’re going to stand in the way. You think he cares what happens to you?” The door opened and the Bulldogs appeared.
“Show this jerk out,” Lascar said. “Hard.”
“Okay, Lascar,” I said, “but you’d better look into it.”
I went through the door between the two heavies, shutting it behind me. I took a couple of steps and stopped.
“Hold on a second, I forgot something,” I said, and quickly turned and opened the door. Number three. Lascar was on the phone and froze when he saw me. “Give him my regards,” I said and shut the door.
A Bulldog took me by each arm and muscled me toward the door. On the way I looked in to see how the revolt of the slaves was going. Progressing nicely. All parties were naked and the southern belle had each of her openings filled with thick black cock. The girl looked busy. The men looked bored. The audience was shouting requests.
The front door was opened. I was clubbed between the shoulders by a heavy fist and given a hard punch to the kidneys. It hurt. I was then pushed out onto the walkway where I fell to my hands and knees. My trousers ripped at the knee. Son of a bitch.
I got in my car, started it, and drove around the corner. I parked, waited about ten minutes, and then lit a cigarette and walked back to the club. I knocked and pressed myself against the door so I couldn’t be seen. The spy hole opened. I stood up and blew a big mouthful of smoke into it. There was a puzzled exclamation followed by some loud coughing. In a second the door flew open and Bulldog II came charging out, but I was ready. I buried my toe in his crotch. As he doubled over I put my hands on the back of his head and pushed downward, hard. His face met the concrete walk with a satisfying sound and he was still. That took about four seconds.
I jumped into the shadows next to the door. Bulldog I came out. One hand was furiously rubbing his eyes, which were watering badly. His other hand held a gun. I sadly shook my head: that was a definite escalation of the conflict. He looked around angrily, trying to see me through his blurred vision. I grabbed the barrel of the gun, catching his finger in the trigger guard, and twisted it until I heard the bone snap. I yanked the gun from his hand and, with the butt, hit him solidly on the bridge of his nose. He fell straight forward onto his face. I found his wallet and took out thirty-five dollars.
That would cover a new pair of pants.
No one had heard anything. Too engrossed in the performance, I guess.
I went back to my car and drove home.
I checked the bedroom and was glad to find that no one was there.
The only message on my answering machine was from Charlie Watkins. He wanted to talk to me. He said it was important.
I tried but couldn’t reach him. I was starting to get bothered about not being able to reach people. Tinny voices on my machine and then nothing.
There was no message from Clarissa Acker. Shit.
I threw my trousers in the garbage and went to bed.
EIGHTEEN
I was draining my second cup of coffee when the phone rang.
A voice I didn’t recognize said that if I wanted the goods on Domingo, I should be at a parking lot near Venice Beach at eleven o’clock. I tried to get the caller to identify himself and tell me what this was all about, but he hung up.
I thought about it. It sounded phony, like I was being set up. On the other hand, my agitating might be bringing in dividends. I weighed both sides, figured I could take care of myself if it was a setup, and decided to keep the appointment. I had nothing else planned for the day anyway except to wait and see what developed.
I heard a key turn in my front door lock. I started moving to the bedroom for my gun, but the door opened before I got halfway. I was lucky again—or maybe not, depending on how you looked at it. It was the woman who ran the apartment building, the mother of Miki or Kiki or whoever. I couldn’t remember her name either, but I began to see where her daughter got the habit of coming into my apartment uninvited. Damn these women.
“Whatever happened to knocking?” I said. It wasn’t a very good line, but I was standing in the middle of the room with only a towel wrapped around me, and it was the best I could manage.
“Then what would be the point of having a passkey?” She grinned and stood with a hand on an out-thrust hip. The
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