LIZZETTE LAY NAKED on the short stack of California king mattresses, three of them in a pile situated on the floor next to the Jacuzzi and only several feet from the Olympic-sized pool in the Muscle Max gym. She stretched out, feline in her repose, semi-wrapped in the white satin sheets, emitting a cute little snore. She was a little too skinny and had an expensive tattoo on her upper back, the right shoulder, depicting a woman with blond hair and red lipstick. She said it wasn’t Twyla, but Borkow knew better. He sat naked, reclined in his La-Z-Boy chair, feet up, with a vodka gimlet in a highball glass. He was watching the TV, sated from his time in the Jacuzzi, then from the heavy aerobics on the bed with Lizzy. He’d taken a dip in the pool right after and his skin still tingled, a sensation created when he moved from the hot water and then right into the cold. Life was good. He could stay there in Muscle Max a good long time if things just stayed like this. Sure, he could.
To the right of the pool on a repurposed bookshelf, Payaso had put on display the thirty pairs of shoes taken from that lawyer broad’s lair on Bronson Street in Hollywood. He didn’t like to think of her name anymore, not with the way she’d treated him, not since he had not gotten out of her where she’d hid the rest of his money. He took her expensive shoes instead.
He raised the remote and changed the channel to the news. He wanted to hear his tag again, “The Most Wanted Man in the Seven Western States.” Maybe after taking out Gloria Bleeker, he’d earned something a little heavier, more along the lines of “The Most Dangerous Man West of the Mississippi.” Yeah, he liked that one a lot.
He’d been biding his time with reruns of The Golden Girls. The costume director on that show, a fellow lover of the foot, must’ve had an unlimited budget or he’d sweet-talked the big names in the industry to donate the shoes for free advertising. That guy knew how to dress his women, and Borkow wanted to meet him. Those old biddies on that show had some ugly feet, but their shoes … whoa mama.
He clicked down to the local station. The talking heads came on the news with the top story. The video feed looked to Borkow like he had missed a major earthquake while he’d been messing around with Lizzy. A restaurant in LA had been trashed. Through the window of a place called Mel’s, the cameraman panned the decimated interior.
The screen cut to some earlier footage of a black man grimacing in pain while strapped to a gurney and being loaded into an ambulance.
Borkow sat forward in his chair, his naked skin peeling away from the cheap vinyl. He pointed for no one’s benefit. “Hey! Hey! That’s Little Genie. They got Little Genie. Son of a bitch, they got Little Genie!”
Lizzette rolled over onto her side. The satin sheet fell away from her bottom and the tattooed woman on her back stared at him. Odd as it seemed, that woman now resembled the face of Gloria Bleeker glaring at him.
Borkow closed his eyes and shook himself. He looked again. Bleeker disappeared and the resemblance to Twyla returned.
The TV screen cut away again, this time to a stand-up with a female reporter talking to an overly tanned guy dressed in a cheesy western-cut polyester suit.
Borkow jumped to his feet. “Hey, I know that dude.” He was the guy with that asshole Bruno Johnson, the bailiff. The ones who raided the Grand Orchid. Borkow, his fingers shaking, hit the button on the remote to take off the mute.
The cowboy in the suit, the one who’d flipped off the SWAT team leader, spoke first.
“Members of The Los Angeles County Sheriff’s elite violent crimes team tracked the notorious murderer Sammy Eugene Ray to this location. Ray had escaped from the county jail and was considered armed and extremely dangerous. After a gun battle two blocks south of here, members of the team chased Ray—known on the street as Little Genie—to this location, where he refused surrender. As you can see, he was extremely desperate.”
“Lieutenant Wicks, isn’t it true that one of your detectives shot Sammy Ray twice, once in each leg, and that Sammy Ray was unarmed?”
“I cannot comment on an ongoing investigation. But maybe you didn’t hear me when I said that the man was wanted—listed as armed and extremely dangerous. He was in custody for the murders of four men and—”
“But he’s still going to trial, so isn’t he innocent until proven guilty? Doesn’t that mean your detective shot an unarmed, innocent man in both of his legs?”
“You can spin it any way you want and you usually do. And you have your facts wrong—he’s already been convicted and he got four life terms. But as far as I’m concerned, the proper amount of force was used to effect the arrest. He is back in custody where he belongs and will stand trial for these new killings over on Tenth. Thank you.” He walked away.
“Payaso! Get your ass in here!” Borkow’s demand echoed off the walls of the indoor pool area. Lizzy raised her head and looked around, her hair mussed and her eyes tented.
“Get dressed, babe, we have to roll.”
“Huh?” she said. “Really? Can’t I stay here and sleep?”
“I said get your ass dressed. I’m not going to tell you again.”
Payaso silently appeared at his side, almost as if he’d come through the wall. Borkow jumped. “I wish you wouldn’t keep doing that.” He pointed to the TV. “Did you see this? They got Little Genie.”
“Yes. I warned you it would happen.”
“You warned me that they would get Little Genie so quickly? I don’t remember you telling me anything of the sort.”
Payaso shook his head. “No, I told you that Bruno Johnson doesn’t play games. He’s the real deal.”
“The news just said that cowboy’s team took him down, not Johnson.”
Payaso shook his head again. “No, it was Johnson. He also shot down two of Genie’s men, then chased Genie on foot to that restaurant.”
“How do you know? Never mind. Johnson did all that?”
“The judge shot one of them. Johnson took the other two by himself. Genie was about to get away. Johnson shot him in both his legs to stop him. He’ll be coming for us next. You won’t be safe here much longer. We have to make a move. We need to do it right now.”
“He shot him in both his legs?” Borkow hopped around putting on his pants without bothering with underwear—going commando. He was real careful when he zipped up. “Don’t just stand there, bring the RV around. We gotta make some moves, all right. We’re going to put that big black bastard off his game. He shot Little Genie in both his legs, you believe that shit? He’s not going to shoot me in both my legs, that’s for damn sure. Make a call to that kid. Tell him we’re coming to see him about his girlfriend, now. Right now.”