The Devil's Music Read online

  No ambush.

  I found the girl, Chantel, in a small bedroom at the front of the house.

  In this bedroom, there was actually a four-poster bed, wildly unmade, beside an end table littered with drug paraphernalia. A kit for shooting up. A gilded mirror with a razor for cutting up coke.

  Chantel was sprawled across the disarrayed, bordello-red comforter. She wore an almost matching fire engine red party dress, cut low at the top and high at the bottom, that looked like it had been spray-painted on to her healthy, curvy, hot little body. Her legs were gorgeous. The hips and boobs looked like they wanted to burst free of the confines of the tight red dress. Every ounce of this baby was right in place. And why not? She was only sixteen years old.

  Jailbait.

  But her young face was already marked by late hours and careless living, and the sexpot image was spoiled by the fact that her mouth was gaping with a thin line of drool oozing from one corner, onto the comforter. She somehow became aware of my presence but not the drool. Her bleary eyes tried to focus on me.

  She murmured in a slurred, barely intelligible voice, “Hey, big boy... got any coke... let’s party...”

  She was trying to sound enticing, but she was having trouble keeping her eyes open. She remained unaware of the drool dripping from her chin.

  I fanned the room with the pistol but there was nothing to shoot at, so I holstered the piece and approached the bed.

  “Let’s go, Chantel. They took off without you, kid.”

  Her slurred voice mumbled, “Libra, he loves me when I’m high... he won’t leave me... he loves me when I’m high... they all do...”

  She rolled onto her side and started laughing about something she must have thought was hysterically funny.

  I said, “I’m here to take you home. If lover boy is coming back, you’ll be long gone.”

  Chantel stopped laughing and managed to get her eyes open on the third try. She resumed trying to keep me in focus.

  She said, “Go fuck yourself, mister... unless you wanna party with little Chantel... you got any coke, hot stuff... then you can fuck me...”

  I said, “Conversation’s over.”

  I leaned over and scooped her up into my arms in one smooth, easy motion. She was light as a feather. She didn’t fight me, being only half aware of what was happening. When I straightened to my full height, she rested her curly, midnight hair onto my shoulder and I caught a sniff of cheap dime store perfume.

  She closed her eyes and made a sexy purring sound.

  “Ooooh, mister... you’re strong!”

  I said, “Hush up,” in as kindly a tone as I could muster.

  And she did.

  We exited the bedroom with me turning sideways to get us through the doorway in order to keep from bumping her feet or her pretty little empty head.

  I preferred for her to remain docile. This was shaping up to be easier than I’d thought. I’d have her returned to Jenna and TJ by that very afternoon. Then we could continue with the task of reforming Stomper’s band. Yeah, I was feeling pretty good about that as we descended the narrow stairway and crossed the kitchen toward the living room and the front door of the house.

  I should have taken the kid out through the outside kitchen door next to the refrigerator. Hell, when I first picked her up off the bed I should have flung her over my shoulder and kept my gun in hand and ready instead of holstering it so I could tote her around like a young bride.

  Those are the hindsight thoughts that flashed through my mind when we left the kitchen and stepped into the living room where a guy stood in the open front doorway, waiting for us.

  Libra.

  He stood there with his feet firmly and squarely planted, with a shit-eating grin spread across an ugly, pockmarked face. His fingertips were close to the pearl grip of a pistol stuck under the leather belt of his jeans.

  I faced him completely indisposed in the self-defense department, what with a semi-conscious teenage girl in my arms. He wore a sleeveless, frayed denim jacket, open at the front, revealing sculpted abs and a vivid tattoo of scales, the astrological symbol for the sign he’d chosen as his gang name.

  “Well, well, stud,” he sneered with a small laugh. “Appears I have you at a disadvantage, chump.”

  The girl in my arms half opened her bleary eyes and murmured, “Hello, lover. I told him you’d be along,” and she started giggling to herself.

  Libra said, “Hey, baby. You did good.”

  I said, “And I walked right into it. Mind if I set this bundle down?”

  Libra chuckled. Not a pleasant sound. He hadn’t drawn his pistol yet, but neither had his fingertips moved more than a half-inch from its grip.

  He said, “What makes you think you’re walking away from this, my man?” The chuckle became a mean little laugh. “Heads up, white boy. I’m about to render you stone cold deceased.”

  The time for talk had passed.

  I flung the girl bodily at him directly from a few feet away without telegraphing the move. No bunching of my muscles or bracing myself, resulting in less than ideal thrust behind the launching of this living package.

  Chantel piled into the cocky bastard with enough unexpected force to topple them both onto the living room floor.

  They untangled themselves from each other fast enough.

  The girl went rapidly, frantically crawling away from “lover boy,” an ungainly sight on hands and knees, the red party dress bunched up around her hips to reveal an absence of undergarments.

  My attention was on disarming Libra in those vital seconds while he was still on his back, scrambling to sit up, drawing his pistol. He got as far as swinging the piece loose from his belt and tracking it up and around at me before I closed in from above. The toe of my shoe connected in a hard clip with the tip of his jaw. I followed through by bringing my right heel down on his right wrist forcefully enough to elicit a gasp of pain.

  The pistol dropped from his fingers, and I reached down intending to retrieve it.

  Then Chantel spoke from behind me in a sharp in a tone of voice that was ragged around the edges but edgy with venom.

  “Hold it right there, mister! You touch my man and I’ll fucking blow you in half.”

  Words to arrest any man’s attention.

  I turned slowly. Very slowly. Something in her voice warned me that this was not a time for a fast move.

  To this day, I don’t know where she found that damn sawed-off. That’s right. A double-barreled job. Nor can I imagine how such a dizzy dish could manage to get her hands on it so fast. She must have known where it was stashed; likely under the low, ratty thrift store couch inches behind her, against a wall facing the front door.

  The shotgun shook in jittery hands.

  She stared at me along its double barrels. Rattled eyes wide, no less bleary than before. Aflame with wired intensity.

  She presented quite a picture. Let’s face it, there are few things in life scarier than a pissed-off woman with a gun. And “pissed-off” is hardly an adequate description. Hair, a tangled mess. The drool had caked on her chin. At least her tight red dress was back at mid-thigh where it belonged.

  The twin barrels of that sawed-off stole the show.

  They were the widest gun barrels I had ever looked into in my life. And the woman behind them... well, everything about her said she was liable at any second to unload both of those barrels at me without provocation from a range of about three feet.

  Now it was a time to move fast! I had little choice. I’m a proactive sort of guy. I wasn’t about to just stand there and let Fate decide whether I was going to die or not. It wasn’t my time.

  My left hand shot out, circled low around those twin barrels and thrust the shotgun aside, allowing Chantel enough time to do nothing but pull the trigger.

  The shotgun’s blast was incredibly loud within the walled confines of the house. A spacious hole suddenly appeared in the wall above the couch amid a flurry of flying, disintegrating plaster and
drywall.

  The extreme violence of the shotgun’s report shocked Chantel into releasing her grip on the weapon. She stumbled two steps backward, dropping the shotgun when her knees connected with the edge of the couch. She sank onto the couch, her eyes rolling back in her head.

  That was that.

  I started to pivot in Libra’s direction.

  The street tough with the snazzy tattoo had not been idle. Having retrieved his pistol, he struck me with it before I was half turned, its pearl grip delivering a wicked blow to my right temple.

  The living room of that little crack house started reeling about me like an out-of-control carousel. Libra’s coarse laugh rang as if from far away.

  Then everything went black.

  14

  I’ve read stories and seen movies, and I’ll bet you have too, where some joker is regaining consciousness. He opens his eyes and gazes up into some lovely nurse’s face and delivers dialogue something along the lines of, “I must have died and gone to heaven, and you are an angel,” and so forth.

  Well, it wasn’t that way with me, regaining consciousness there on the floor of a crack house.

  The paramedic who revived me was a hefty gal with a wide face, beady eyes and a not-so-faint mustache and a huge mole under her left eye that sprouted hairs that grew darker than the mustache.

  I don’t know how long I’d been out. I felt like I’d been dragged at high speed behind a truck over a considerable distance. I felt like hell. As if my head had been cracked open where Libra had clipped me with the gun butt, and the aches spread out through every part of me.

  It was impossible to tell whether my “angel” had pumped into me something to revive me or whether mine was a natural return to the world of the living. Either way, she seemed to be saying things that I couldn’t hear. That’s when I realized the loud ringing in my ears could only be the result of that indoor shotgun blast just before Libra had knocked me out.

  I sat up. My temple felt like someone was taking a buzz saw to it. I lifted my fingertips to it and gently determined that, thankfully, none of my brains seemed to have leaked out. My angel’s lips were still moving and I still couldn’t hear a thing except for hundreds of bells clanging in my ears. I made a motion to the paramedic that it was okay for her to stop fiddling with me. Mercifully, she got the message and withdrew, leaving me to sit there on the floor with my head in my hands. The pain slowly began to recede. I was regaining awareness.

  The paramedic was gone then, but I was not alone. There were two DPD officers present. One of them was filling out report forms while his partner, an older, more streetwise cop, kept giving me the evil eye and asking me questions that I comprehended about as well as I’d heard the paramedic addressing me.

  I made it to the couch. The pain at my temple didn’t go anywhere, but the rest of me started feeling human again. My hearing returned like someone very gradually turning up the volume on a television. The best part of that was I didn’t have to listen too much of that officers’ yammering because right about then, two more men, these in plainclothes, arrived on the scene.

  Detective Joe Gallegos is a lean man, about my age, with cop eyes that miss nothing.

  The guy who walked in with Joe Gallegos had sandy hair and pinched features, was in his early forties, and sported a well-tailored three-piece suit along with a pronounced air of self-satisfied superiority. His name was Neil Dickensheets. He was an Assistant District Attorney.

  I overheard their brief exchange with the patrolmen. Joe thanked them and heard what pertinent information they offered while Three Piece Suit sauntered over to where I sat on the couch. I must have looked pretty bad.

  It took me a couple of tries at finding my voice and when I did, I said, “Things must be pretty damn slow downtown to bring an assistant DA out on a small-fry squeal like this.”

  Dickensheets said, “Your name came up twice today in reports of gunshots fired. Your name is red flagged by my office, my friend. You’re right. Most times, I would not request notification on only shots fired. Not in this town. But for you, Kilroy, I make an exception.”

  I said, “Should I be flattered or incensed?”

  He ignored that.

  He said, “I asked Detective Gallegos to accompany me. He often sticks up for you when the subject of your interference with official police work comes up. He deserves to be the one to place you in handcuffs.”

  I said, “He remembers those times when I came up with a clue that solved a case and gave you a case to prosecute. To your advantage, I might add. And this is the thanks I get.”

  “Knock it off,” he snarled. “I didn’t drive all the way over here with a police detective just to play one-on-one with you, wise guy. I know you’ve got a license for that piece you carry, but it can be yanked. You think you’re some badass cowboy who can ride around, shooting up our town like it’s the Wild West, endangering the lives of innocent bystanders? Twice in one day is enough to yank your PI ticket. Let’s hear you make a joke out of that.”

  Joe had joined us after his conversation with the patrolmen.

  He said, “I’ve got a better idea. Kilroy, spare the wisecracks. What the hell is going on? You trade shots this morning on a public street, and now this.” He nodded at the hole in the wall that had been made by the shotgun blast. “The neighbors phoned it in. There’ve been calls before about this crack house. And here you are, found KO-ed on the floor. Tell us about that.”

  He hadn’t referred to our previous conversation regarding the shooting outside of Denny’s, so I imagined he was playing that under the radar with the DA’s office. Not much I could fault him for there. Joe did his best to look out for me when he could, but this time I was on my own.

  “I’m working a case,” I said.

  “Figured that.”

  Dickensheets said, “Like hell.”

  I said, “This morning on the street, I was returning fire. Defending myself. Whatever witness supplied my license plate number will confirm that much. And I don’t recall any innocent bystanders being injured. As for this,” I wagged a thumb at the hole in the wall, “I’m not in the habit of shooting up crack houses with a shotgun, though I don’t necessarily think it’s a bad idea.”

  Joe said, “Working a case, you say.”

  I nodded.

  “A runaway. Underage. I tracked her here. At first, I thought it might be kidnapping. It isn’t, but in my book statutory rape is just as bad.”

  “Names,” said Dickensheets.

  “Uh-uh. That’s privileged information and you know it.”

  His manner grew smug.

  “You don’t much want to work in the town anymore, do you?”

  Joe’s eyes sent me a warning that said there was a time to buck and a time to maybe throw a bone.

  “Okay, I said, “here’s a name for you: Libra.”

  Their reaction was so identical, it was comical. They each blinked a couple of times when they heard the name and their mouths became serious, straight lines. They traded a meaningful look.

  Then Joe said, “What do you know about Libra?”

  There it was. I didn’t know what it was yet, but I was being dealt a hand to play, and so I played it along with a small shrug.

  “He’s a street tough.” My fingertips gently outlined the tender spot at my temple. “A real badass if you don’t keep an eye on him.”

  “That cold case you were asking me about,” said Joe. “The kill behind Leon’s. Libra is too young to have been tied in with that.”

  I said, “Yeah, but he could be involved in its aftermath.”

  “Is that what this morning’s shooting was about?”

  “Maybe.”

  That was not the response Joe was looking for. His expression tightened.

  He said, “Stop playing it so cagey, amigo. I take it Libra is the one who clipped you and left you here. What’s this about a shotgun?”

  “It went off by accident. The girl I came here for, she turned it on me. I did
n’t appreciate that so I took it away from her and the damn thing went off. My apologies to the neighbors for interrupting their siesta.”

  Joe said, “You do understand that I’m trying to go easy on you here. Like Neil says, I’m on your side. And like he thinks, maybe I’m on your side too much. Don’t let me go to bat for you, guy, and then turn on me by withholding something I need to know.”

  I said, “What you know, and what you need to know, are worthy topics of discussion.”

  “Is that right?”

  “That’s right. What do you know that I should know about Libra? Come on, Joe. You understand client privilege, so now please explain to me why you can’t throw some of your information my way.”

  He started to come back with a sharp reply, but Dickensheets lifted a hand.

  He said, “Gentlemen. Dial it back, okay? All right, Kilroy. Here’s all you need to know. Libra’s real name is Trent William McIntyre. No convictions. No indictments. No arrests. But at street level, he’s the player in Five Points.”

  Joe got over his mad, adding, “At least six murders have been linked to him. That includes one cop. He runs the whores and the dope. The Mob takes a cut for letting him operate but word is even they don’t want to mess with them. He’s one tough, smart, lucky punk. Does his own dirty work but he’s smart enough to keep his ass covered.”

  Dickensheets added, “So far he’s stayed out of the law’s reach but that’s about to change. Kidnapped and underage girl, for instance.”

  I said, “I told you that I originally thought it was kidnapping. I’m not sure what the law would say about what’s going on between those two but the girl is happy to be along for the ride.”

  “You let me worry about the legalities,” Dickensheets huffed. “What I want from you is the name of this young girl, her parents or guardian and any leads you may have as to their present whereabouts.”

  “I told you—"

  “Yes, yes, client privilege. I’m a lawyer, Kilroy. I understand legality, I daresay, far better than any two-bit private eye.”