Nocturnal Page 19

  He looked up from his paper. “Hey, Rudy.”

  Rudy looked at him.

  “You want anything out of the deli case?” he asked, the cigar still clenched between his teeth. “I got some fresh garlic bologna I’ll sell you at a discount.”

  Rudy considered the vision of Kirchik, cigar still in his mouth, leaning over the meat, slicing it with practiced precision, the ash of his cigar hovering precariously over the bologna.

  “No thanks, “ Rudy replied. “I’m good.”

  Kirchik shrugged, went back reading his paper. Rudy noticed there was no one else in the building. And even though Kirchik had surveillance cameras set up in the ceiling, Rudy knew they did not work. They were simply installed to deter amateur thieves from robbing him.

  Rudy walked over to the glass- enclosed freezer section. He saw a turkey and dressing TV dinner, one of the few TV dinner varieties that he actually liked. He opened the door, grabbed it, and headed towards the front of the store. He placed the dinner in front of Kirchik.

  “Anything else?”

  Rudy picked a newspaper from the stack beside the register. Kirchik rang it up, gave him his change.

  Outside, Rudy headed up the street again, his TV dinner and folded newspaper tucked underneath his arm. He suddenly bolted across the street at mid-block, moving gracefully like a fighter bobbing and weaving to escape his opponent’s punches.

  Rudy hopped onto the opposite sidewalk, turned again, and strolled leisurely in the opposite direction. As he strolled, he glanced around, to his left and his right, catching reflections of the sidewalk and street behind him. He did not notice anyone following him. Still, the constant zigzag approach, changing streets, changing directions, was a solid counter surveillance tactics. He did not think he was being followed, but still...

  Twenty minutes later, Rudy strolled east on Grape Street. He passed by the large HMO building, a state of the art healthcare facility, complete with a weekend Urgent Care, owned and operated by one of the top Healthcare systems in California, possibly the country. Being a Saturday, the parking lot was mostly empty.

  Rudy glanced at his watch. Just after noon now. The morning cloud cover was breaking up, replaced by lighter, whiter clouds floating across the blue sky. The sun peeked through, warming his face. His mood lightened, and he relished the thought of devouring his TV dinner, then catching a nap.

  His studio apartment was located on the western-facing corner of a hundred and ten year old, pink stucco apartment building, sitting on the north side of Grape, bordering Third Street. From the top floor apartment, Rudy had a great view of the city tumbling down the hills towards the bay. At night, he could see all the twinkling lights of the ships and smaller watercraft, and he could watch the jets landing at Lindberg Field. On a clear night, he might be able to make out the light patterns of the aircraft carriers berthed across the bay at North Island.

  He pulled his key ring out of his pocket, ready to enter the building through the locked, gated entryway. Rudy had been told once you could tell how complicated a man’s life was by the number of keys he carried. The logic went, the more keys, the heavier was the man’s burden of responsibility, ergo, the more complicated a man’s life was. He inserted the key into the heavy deadbolt lock on the steel screened door.

  He glanced over his shoulder one last time, making sure no one was coming up behind him. Some would call him paranoid. But Rudy Valdez was a survivor. He had survived his cop-based upbringing, had survived his tour in the Corps, along with his tour of combat, and he had survived working as a soldier for hire in the drug trade. Paranoid? No. He was careful. He was meticulous. He was disciplined.

  He was a professional.

  He turned the key, felt the weight of the bolt as the mechanism turned over, and the bolt slid back. He pushed the gate inward gently with his shoulder, and stepped inside. The door swung closed behind him, set on a pneumatic cylinder installed at the top of the door. He twisted the finger handle, sliding the lock back into place.

  He climbed the stairs and walked down the hallway, passing closed apartment doors on each side. He did not know many of the other tenants in the building. They led quiet lives, and he kept strange hours, so Rudy pretty much simply kept to himself. Plus, civilian relationships complicated matters.

  Rudy climbed another set of one hundred year old stairs to the third floor. The boards creaked under his weight. One board near the top actually sagged perceptibly. He made a mental note to call the property management company so they could send someone out to fix it.

  He stepped onto the landing and paused, his senses on high alert. He heard no shifting of body weight, no sounds of sucked in breath that comes right before a blitz attack. He saw no shifting shadows, no gun barrels, no flash suppressors or silencers.

  He swung to his left, and walked down the hallway. The sunlight from outside filtered in through the window at the end of the hallway. The last door on the right stood resolute, solid, closed, secured. Rudy’s key ring found its way into his hand once more.

  As he stopped in front of his door, another door down the hallway clicked and swung open. Rudy’s eyes darted to his right. He relaxed as he saw a rather frail, gray haired lady, stooped with age, joints swollen with arthritis, teeter out with the help of a cane. She looked his way, Her face, lined with deep wrinkles not at all hidden by the heavy makeup and garish red lipstick, moved upwards into a smile. Tobacco yellow teeth gleamed in her mouth.

  “Why Mr. Valdez!” she exclaimed. “Just now getting home?”

  “Good morning, Mrs. Loobner,” Rudy said politely.

  “Why it’s actually a bit past noon by now,” she announced. “So who was the lucky woman? Anyone I know?”

  “My odd hours are work-related,” he parried. He could smell the cat she kept in her apartment. The smell emanated from her clothes.

  “That’s your problem,” she stated with authority. “You work too much. Young man your age should be spending time with a hot girlfriend.”

  Rudy smiled. “Well, I’ll have to work on that.”

  “You should,” she said as she locked her door. She stepped closer to Rudy, then glanced around to make sure no one was listening.

  “I had a Latin lover once, you know,” she confided.

  “Really?”

  “Of course,” she confirmed. “Nineteen sixty seven. I wasn’t always the seventy-four year old woman you see today, you know.”

  “I should hope not!”

  Mrs. Loobner’s face became wistful. Her eyes softened as she accessed distant memories. “His name was Raul,” she said, her voice lilting. “He was thirty-one at the time, tall, thick hair, moustache.” She looked at Rudy. “Hung like a horse.”

  Rudy nodded, trying to seem impressed.

  “Best sex this skinny little white girl ever had, I kid you not,” she finished.

  Rudy grinned appreciatively, tried to keep from laughing. “So what happened?”

  “Oh.” Her face fell. Once again, she was seventy-four year old Mrs. Loobner, who lived alone in a stale apartment with a stinky cat and a malodorous litter box.

  “He went back to Mexico,” she said. “Work up here dried up, so he went back to his wife and kids.”

  “Awwwww. How sad.”

  “Yes. Well.” She began to turn, leaning on her cane. “Nothing good lasts forever,” she stated, with a sad resignation of someone who knew what they were talking about. She began to hobble off down the hallway.

  Thinking the conversation over, Rudy turned his attention back to his door. The key was still in the lock. His fingers engulfed the key chain.

  “You really should find yourself a nice girl, you know,” came Mrs. Loobner’s voice from farther down the hall.

  “Why’s that, Mrs. Loobner?”

  “You work too much,” she reiterated. “You’re always working, keeping such strange hours, coming and going all hours of the day and night, being gone for days on end.”

  Rudy shrugged. “It’s the n
ature of the work,” he said simply.

  Mrs. Loobner shook her head, not accepting that as an excuse. “You need more balance in your life. You need to find love. Share your passion.” Rudy saw her eyes reddening as if she were beginning to tear up. “Now you listen to me, sweetie. I’m an old woman, but I am no fool.” She paused, then said, “No one gets to the end of their life, lying on their deathbed, and wishes they had spent more time at the office.”

  Rudy realized the truth of what she was saying. He watched the sad old woman turn from him and tottered away towards the staircase.

  Rudy turned back to his door. As he turned the key in the lock, he understood what dear Mrs. Loobner was trying to say. She was trying to help him, warning him to not make the same mistakes she had made. She was a sweet, sad, caring lady, and her words had impact on him.

  He opened his door and stepped inside. He closed the door behind him, threw the deadbolt into place. He smelled the stale smoke of a cigarette. Problem was, Rudy never smoked in his apartment. He spun around and froze, his heart hammering within his chest.

  The other man in the room made no attempt to conceal himself. He sat in a worn easy chair Rudy had bought at a Goodwill store a few years back. The studio apartment was an open space, with TV area and easy chair on one side, A futon that doubled as Rudy’s bed near the huge front window that opened out onto the city, the view Rudy loved, and a kitchenette area along the wall on the other side, complete with an apartment sized refrigerator, apartment sized stove and oven, a single sink and small food prep area, and a microwave, another Goodwill purchase, sitting atop the refrigerator, waiting to heat its next meal.

  Rudy’s lips went tight with tension. His eyes narrowed.

  The man across from him sat easily in the chair, arms laid out on the arms of the chair, legs crossed casually. He sat back in the cushions, his smile seemed friendly enough, but one could never tell in this business. Often, it was your friend that came to kill you. However, this man had no weapon in his hand. His pistol was situated comfortably in its leather holster beneath his left armpit.

  “How did you get in?”

  “I have my methods,” Rick Oakley replied.

  “You’re here to kill me?”

  “No. God, no. Why would you think that?”

  “I just got popped. I might have panicked, talked to the cops. Maybe cut myself a deal. Took a plea bargain to testify.”

  Oakley shook his head. “Someone else, maybe. Not you.”

  Rudy moved carefully to beside his decrepit dinette table. He put his newspaper and TV dinner down, emptying his hands in case this went south.

  Rick stood up slowly, trying to convey he was no threat to Rudy. “You’re a man of honor, Rudy. You still have that whole ‘Marine’ thing going on. And I think you always will.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “It means you’d let them cut out your tongue before you’d ever talk to the fucking cops.”

  Rudy thought for moment, nodded. “You’re probably right about that.”

  “I’m ex-military, too. I know hardcore when I see it. And you’re as hardcore as they come.”

  Allowing himself to relax a bit, Rudy tore open the box, tore off the corner of the clear film wrapping sealed over the food, then tossed it into his microwave. He set the timer for five minutes.

  “You still haven’t told me why you’re here,” he countered, turning full on to face Oakley.

  “No, I guess I haven’t.”

  Rudy waited. He said nothing, but was acutely aware of the sound of the microwave cooking, the faint smell of the dinner that would become stronger over the next few minutes, the curling window curtains at the front window, the cool breeze wafting in, and Rick Oakley’s face, smiling smugly. Rudy was losing patience.

  Oakley must have sensed it, because he stepped back and broke eye contact. “Sorry,” he said. “Bad joke.”

  “So why are you here?”

  Oakley’s took a breath, blew it out. “I need to ask you a serious question.”

  Rudy, confused, said nothing.

  “I need to now precisely where your loyalties lie.”

  “My loyalties begin and end with the organization that has taken me in, given me a job, given me friendship, and camaraderie, and loyalty to me,” he stated forcefully. His voice became harder edged as he spoke, his anger rising.

  Oakley put his hands up, palms out. “Okay, okay. Take it easy.”

  “Fuck ‘easy’”, Rudy spat back. “Who the fuck do you think you are questioning my loyalty?” Rudy took a step forward.

  Oakley took a half step back, planted his feet. He dropped his hands to his sides, ready for an attack. “I said, take it easy, kid. This is not what I came here for.” There was no fear or stress registering from Oakley, only a warning tone in his voice.

  Rudy carefully considered his options. Oakley stood stock still, not wanting to provoke a fight, giving Rudy time to think. Before Rudy could make a decision, the microwave bell went off with a small DING!

  Rudy stood here, staring at Oakley. Oakley’s eyes flickered to the microwave. “Your lunch is ready,” he said. Then he took a step back.

  The tension in the room dissipated. Rudy’s shoulders slumped as he relaxed from combat mode. He heaved a great sigh, grabbed a small towel. He opened the microwave door and, using the towel like a potholder, gingerly lifted the TV dinner out of the microwave and placed it on a nearby kitchen counter.

  “Look. I’ve never questioned your loyalty to the organization. What I want to know about is your loyalty to Vargas.”

  Rudy opened a drawer and pulled out a fork. He grabbed his TV dinner, moved to the small dinette table to eat. He placed the dinner on the table in front of a chair, sat down. He applied some salt and pepper to the dinner from small plastic shakers sitting in the middle of the table.

  He did not offer Oakley a seat.

  “Mr. Vargas gave me this job,” he said, as he cut into the tender meat.

  “Actually, El Gecko hired you,” Oakley countered. “But Vargas is – or was – his boss, so....”

  Rudy ate the meat off his fork. “What are you getting at?”

  Oakley shrugged, like it was nothing big. “Oh, you know how it is.”

  “No. I really don’t. I’m kind of stupid like that. Explain it to me. In words of one syllable.”

  “Organizations can run almost on their own for a long time, right?” Oakley asked.

  “I suppose.”

  “Procter and Gamble, US Steel, the movie studios, all big companies with complex organizations and all running like a well-oiled machine, yes?”

  Rudy shrugged, ate a roasted potato. “I suppose so.”

  “My point is,” Oakley said slowly, “is that within these companies, the heads of these companies come and go.”

  Rudy looked at him, guarded.

  “But you know the really extraordinary thing?”

  Rudy put another piece of meat product in his mouth, waiting for Oakley to continue.

  “These companies continue on long after the founders or CEO’s have moved on.”

  Rudy dipped a piece of meat into the brown gravy sauce, then popped it into his mouth. “What does any of this have to do with us?” He glared directly into Oakley’s eyes.

  Oakley noticed how Rudy sat, legs under him, ready to explode upwards at any moment. He also noticed Rudy held his fork in his fist, prongs up. Not as an eating utensil.

  As a weapon.

  Oakley smiled. “Direct. I admire that.” He paused, and Rudy knew to wait. “There may come a time when Mr. Vargas decides to move on to greener pastures, Rudy.”

  Rudy did not like where this was going.

  “If Mr. Vargas decides to retire, go somewhere, sit on his money and make babies the rest of his life, would you be loyal to him, or to the organization? Would you be loyal to the incoming CEO?”

  “You’re asking me to back you, while you plan on ‘retiring’ Mr. Vargas?” That combat mode stare wa
s back in his eye in an instant.

  “Good God, no,” Oakley reassured him. “Not at all. I’ve known Vargas since we were kids in middle school. No, I’m asking precisely what I say I’m asking.”

  “Even if Mr. Vargas was gone,” Rudy answered, “I would be loyal to the organization. I need to keep working I’m not ready to retire just yet.”

  Oakley nodded, taking this new information in. Rudy was smarter, more forward thinking than Oakley had realized. His respect for Rudy went up another tick. “And if I was the head of the organization? Could I count on your loyalty?”

  “My loyalty will always be to the organization, no matter who runs it.”

  Oakley appeared relieved. He moved to the door. “Don’t be late tonight.” Then he was out the door and gone.

  Like he had never been there at all.

  By three thirty in the afternoon, the sunlight was already fading. Sinking towards the western horizon behind the Point Loma’s hilly terrain, the sun’s intensity had lessened to the point where it was simply a yellow orb hanging distant in the sky. The daily Marine Layer was rolling in, thick gray cotton clouds off the Pacific. Condensation clung to cars, railings, and other exposed metal objects.

  By four thirty, San Diego dimmed with an overcast twilight. Street lamps blinked on. Vehicles used their headlights.

  At the vampire’s apartment in Kensington, the covers on the bed stirred. The vampire resuscitated with pain and agony. Just like every night. He woke up gasping, hacking, coughing, grabbing his stomach. He sat up on the side of the bed, his thin pale legs dangling, feet not quite touching the floor. He was finally able to inhale deeply, completely filling his lungs, then blowing it out. His head started to clear. His senses sharpened.

  Saturday night. Financial markets closed. What to do? Stay in and read? Watch TV? He felt no great need to prowl; he had fed well recently.

  As he sat there contemplating, a new awareness encroached upon his consciousness. A vague danger. Not to him, but to the young cop he had saved. The feeling grew stronger, more specific, more imminent.

  He could not let it happen. Not to this cop. This human. After all, Reggie was... well, Reggie was special, wasn’t he?