Snake Road: Butch Bliss, #2

CHAPTER 1

I was queuing for a hot dog at the corner of Ventura and Las Mercados when the black sedan pulled up and scared off half the line. The couple in front of me closed the gap that had suddenly opened, and he made some joke about illegal immigrants. She laughed politely, but she looked away. She met my gaze and offered a tiny shrug. What's a girl to do? it said.

She was wearing a gauzy wrap over a bikini top and a short skirt. He was wearing white socks with his cork-soled sandals. One of them was dressed for being seen at the beach, and the other one wasn't.

I shrugged back. I wasn't going to offer any suggestions if she couldn't see for herself. The white socks were a dead giveaway, frankly.

Hey, someone said. I could see the front edge of the sedan out of the corner of my eye. I wasn't going to turn my head any farther. Hey, asshole.

Sock Dude looked. His lady friend rubbed the back of her neck as she stepped a little ahead of him, turning her body slightly so she could move out of the way if she needed to.

Sock Dude, on the other hand, didn't have the same instinctive sense of danger.

You talking to me? he asked. He screwed up his face, like that was going to help, but all it did was highlight the narrow space between his eyes. He looked about as ferocious as a wet weasel.

The driver of the car said something, and the man's expression changed. What? He frowned. His eyes darted toward me. Him? You want to talk to him?

I took a couple of steps forward, until his outstretched finger nearly touched my chest. I'm just getting a hot dog, I said.

He's—ah— Sock Dude curled his finger up as he took a step backward.

His lady friend was looking at me. She had hazel eyes, and strands of brown hair hanging down from the careless bun atop her head. They framed her face nicely.

I gave her a smile. Letting her know I wasn't worried.

Tourists like it when the locals smile at them. It makes them feel like they belong.

The sedan's tires rubbed the edge of the sidewalk as the car crept forward. I heard the back window slide down. Get in the car, Bliss. A woman's voice.

I looked over my shoulder. You always look when a woman says your name.

The windows of the sedan were tinted, which made the interior of the car darker than the rest of the world. I couldn't see much of the woman, just the curve of her jaw and the cut of her business suit. Both were impressive.

I'm getting a hot dog, I said.

You can get one later, she said.

I'm hungry now, I said.

She said something to the driver, who looked like a piece of marble with sunglasses taped on, and he rolled the car forward again.

Horatio, the woman called out, directing her attention to the guy working the hot dog cart.

He was trying his best to ignore the black sedan, but he flinched when she said his name.

Everything up to date? she asked. Licenses? Permits?

Horatio looked down the line at me, silently pleading with his eyes.

I sighed. And just like that, I said. A man's appetite disappears. I glanced at the hazel-eyed woman. Enjoy your visit to LA, I said. The food's good, even if the atmosphere is a bit sketchy.

I stepped out of line and turned toward the sedan. Get in, the driver said, jerking his head toward the back of the car.

I had barely gotten into the car when the driver sped away from the curb. The sudden motion slammed the door shut behind me, and I slid around on the cool leather seats. The woman had already moved over to the other side of the car, otherwise I would have fallen into her lap, which would have spoiled their spooky government agency vibe.

While I got myself situated and put my seat belt on, I checked out the woman. Her hair was black, and she had it pulled back and formed to her head in a rigorously precise shape. Her face was as angular as her attitude, and her lipstick was a muted red—several steps away from cherry red, but not so far as to be drained of color. She wasn't wearing any rings, and I caught sight of a watch peeking out from the sleeve of her dark blue suit jacket.

Where are we going? I asked.  

She made her own examination, and briefly, the corner of her mouth twitched as she finished. You owe me a favor, she said.

I do?

I didn't know this woman, though if I had to guess from the car and the outfit, I didn't want to know her.

A couple of months ago . . . She let it hang there.

And here it is, I thought. The other shoe.

I had been involved in a little trouble over the summer. About an hour north of LA. When it was all over, I had gone to Oregon for a few weeks, where I had gotten some private surfing lessons. I was a good student, and the instruction was excellent, but the weather turned eventually. The sky lost its luster, the waves had gotten mean, and it had been time to come back to LA.

Where everyone had moved on to more interesting stories.

Well, almost everyone.

I leaned forward and glanced down at her shoes. Black wedges. Closed toe. Hard to tell if her toenails were painted, though I would bet that they were. And I knew where she had them done.

Hot Passion Excess? I asked, nodding toward her feet.

She leaned forward and slipped off one of her shoes. She was wearing sheer black stockings under her immaculately tailored pants. I caught a glimmer of silver when she flashed her stocking-covered foot at me. Iridescent Moonlight Frolic, she said.

That's a nice shade, I said. Really sets the mood.

She slipped her shoe on again, and I leaned back against the seat. Marble Face was staring at me in the rearview mirror. Or maybe his head was stuck at an odd angle. It was hard to tell with the sunglasses.

You two probably don't swap tips on toenail polish, do you? I said.

We don't.

Must make all that idle caught in traffic chit-chat sorta tough.

We find other things to talk about.

Waxing? I asked.

He kept staring at me.

I glanced out the window instead, watching as he merged into the bumper-to-bumper joy that was the 10. He worked his way over to the leftmost lane, and the sprawl of central LA slowly crawled by us. We were heading south.

I need you to deliver a package for me, the woman said.

What sort of package?  

The people who will receive your package will give you a receipt. You will bring that back and deliver it to a third party.

Yeah, I'm familiar with this routine, I said. And no, I'm not interested.

It's not like that, she said.

It's always like that, I said. Especially when you tell me it isn't. I shook my head. I did my time. And then some. I was never a mule then, and I'm not going to be one now.

She was silent for a minute, and when I looked over at her, she was regarding me with a cool stare, as if she was considering how long she was going to wait before she stopped asking nicely.

Okay, she said.

And that was it. I let the silence stretch between us, waiting for her to say something, and eventually, I broke. "Okay what?" I asked.

It doesn't matter, she said. You don't need to know.

Know what?

Are you going to take the package?

No.

Then we're done here.

Are you fucking kidding me?

Mr. Bliss, it's adorable that you think you're entitled to some sort of explanation, but I don't owe you a damn thing. You're a convicted felon. I shouldn't even be having this conversation with you.

And yet here we are. I waved a hand at the freeway outside the car. I was doing just fine a little while ago. Looking forward to one of Horatio's dogs. And now . . . ? This is bullshit. Who are you working for? DEA? INS? The DA's office?

She shook her head. It doesn't matter, Mr. Bliss. It really doesn't. She leaned forward to speak to the driver. Derek? Go ahead and take the next exit. We'll let Mr. Bliss off.

Hang on, I said. You can't just throw me out of the car like this.

We can't?

No, damnit. You can't. This is—

Is the neighborhood too rough for you?

No, the neighborhood isn't rough. That's not the point.

Derek changed lanes, heading back toward the righthand lane where the exit was.

No, wait, wait, I said. Wait a minute.

Derek stared at me in the rearview mirror. The car stayed in its lane.

I exhaled noisily. What kind of package? I asked.

A ghost of a smile touched the woman's lips.

Not yet, she said. You have to say 'yes' before I tell you anything more.

I hate this game, I said.

It's more fun than the one the DEA plays.

They know better. We've already had a chat about how they don't want to play any games with me.

She shrugged. Maybe they won't play with you. Maybe they'll ask someone else— 

Leave her out of this, I said.

Out of what?

Whatever it is that we're doing—or not doing. I can't tell. But you leave her the fuck alone.

What are we doing? she asked. She raised an eyebrow, and I swear she tucked her tongue against the inside of her cheek.  

Delivering a package, I said.  My hand clenched on my knee. And bringing back a receipt.

There. See? Not so hard.

Fuck you, I said.

Careful, she said. I've seen some of your films. Don't be giving me any ideas.

She laughed when I blushed and turned away. I watched the scenery scroll by until I was done being bent out of shape by what she knew about my past—both recent and not-so recent.

I heard her move around on the leather seat. A yellow file folder dropped onto my lap. Which will it be, Mr. Bliss? she asked. The package or the girl?  

Inside the folder were two pictures. One was of a young woman standing on a beach, a surf board tucked under her arm. The sun was setting the sky on fire, and the wind was blowing her hair. It was taken with a telephoto lens, and the light was all wrong to see her face, but I knew those shoulders and the lean shape of that body. How many times had I watched her stare out at the water like that? We had surfed like the summer might never end.

With a sigh, I tucked the picture of Dolly behind the other picture in the folder.

It was a long snake, curled up in a white file box. It was some kind of python—pale green, with yellow eyes.  

What is this? I asked.

It's Operation Trouser Snake, she said. That's the package."

CHAPTER 2

Derek dropped off I-5 near the US-Mexico border, and he cruised around an enormous parking lot that embraced a sprawling outlet mall along Camino de la Plaza. There hadn't been much chit-chat during the ride—after I agreed to the job, there hadn't been much to talk about.

Derek wheeled the black sedan next to a sad looking station wagon and stopped. He put the car in park and sat still, his dark glasses making it impossible to tell if he had gone to sleep or if he was staring at me in the rearview mirror.

I looked at the station wagon instead. It needed a wash—in fact, it needed an entire makeover. It had been blocky and out of fashion when it had debuted decades ago. There was never going to be a time when this look was retro. I looked around the rest of the parking lot. We were as far away from the outlet mall as we could possibly be without being in Mexico proper.

Well, this doesn't look suspicious, I said.

It's fine, she said. No one will look closely at that car.

Are you kidding me? It's exactly the sort of car they're going to look at.

She rolled her eyes. Derek? Would you show Mr. Bliss to his car?

He made a noise like a piston grinding, and the car bounced when he opened his door and got out. He opened my door and stood there, a block of stone in a hot parking lot.

The light was bright after riding in the car, and I blinked heavily.

The photos, she said as I got out of the car.

What? I was still holding on to the file folder. I don't get to keep them as souvenirs of our time together?

You don't get to keep them.

Not even as a friendly reminder of your heartwarming concern for my well-being?

You don't need a reminder, Mr. Bliss. 

No, I don't suppose I do.

I put the file folder on the seat between us. Her hand moved to take it, but I pressed it down with my fingers. You're playing someone, I said. This isn't just a favor.

She gave me a professional smile, and I saw a glint of something in her gaze that might have been actual warmth. I'm protecting valuable assets, she said.

You know I don't give a shit about your assets, I pointed out.

She looked at me for a minute and then dipped her head slightly. You might, she said.

Convince me.

She shook her head. Not today. You don't need to know.

I weighed my options—there weren't many, to be fair—and finally decided I didn't want to play her enigmatic spook game. Too many layers of deceit and bullshit. It wasn't my style. Too much work. It was exhausting.

I'm going to give you a code name, I said. In light of your ridiculous Operation Trouser Snake.

It's a good operation name. No one will take it very seriously.

To their detriment, right?

She gave me one of the enigmatic spook shrugs. See? Way too much work.

Frolic, I said. After your toenail polish. That's what I'm going to call you.

She gave me a genuine smile—one that made me almost regret being a jerk about things. Almost. But not quite. I like that name, Mr. Bliss.

Might make for a decent TV show, I said. "Frolic and Bliss."

Might be a decent way to spend an afternoon, too, she said.

I thought about that for a second and then shook my head. Less emotional baggage with a TV show, I decided.

Her laugh followed me out of the car. I pretended to adjust my shirt, so that I could swallow the stupid grin that was threatening to spill out of my mouth.

Derek remained inscrutable. If he noticed, he gave no sign. Package and directions are in the back, he said. He held out a tiny metal ring with some keys on it. When I reached for the ring, it slipped out of his grip and fell to the ground.

I looked at the keys and then at Derek. His mouth moved the tiniest amount. Just enough to let the word asshole slip out. He got back in the sedan, and I watched the car pull away. Frolic didn't drop a window and give me one of those smoldering looks that femme fatales roll out when they are leaving the frame.

One of the keys unlocked the back, and inside, I found a frayed military-green surplus blanket covering a boxy shape. I lifted the blanket and found a white file box, just like the one I had seen in the picture. It was taped shut, and there were holes along the top and sides. I nudged the box with a knuckle, and it felt like there was something inside. Gee, I wonder what it could be?

There was a file folder next to the box. Inside was a single piece of paper with a couple lines written on it. I scanned the writing. It was an address and a phone number.

I read it again.

The address was in Tijuana.

Shit, I said.

The tape came off without much effort, and when I had enough of it off to open the lid of the box, I peered inside.

Shit, I said again.

The snake was much bigger in real life than in the picture.

I drove the station wagon closer to the mall, and parked in the middle of a row of other unremarkable cars. Much better than that conspicuous last slot at the ass-end of the parking lot. I fumbled with the keys, trying to figure out how to how lock up with the car without looking like I was breaking into it, and then I went into the air-conditioned mall.

I wasn't about to drive that old clunker across the border with nothing in the back but a cardboard box under a blanket. I might as well stroll up naked with the snake draped around my neck.

How about a cavity search, sir?

Oh, I was hoping you'd ask.

Inside the mall, I bought a duffel bag, a couple of shirts, and several packages of underwear. I stopped at the food court for a hot dog.

Two, in fact, since it was past lunch, and I skipped breakfast. Not intentionally. It was just how the day had gone.

It had been quiet these last few weeks. There had been the one job, back in the spring, for the producer guy I had worked with in my former life. After that, I had been in Oregon, and I had missed the story in The Las Angeles Times about the ex-porn starlet who had been caught up in a murder cult. Well, there were some dead bodies too, which always makes a salacious story juicier.

Anyway, it turned out the producer guy who had hired me was, in fact, still married to the missing starlet, and part of the reason I had gone north was to avoid his wrath at the publicity. Turned out that he was quite pleased. Fucking genius, he had told me later. Everyone talked about it all summer. I've gotten a dozen offers on her life story already.

Hollywood. Nothing was too weird or morbid for the jaded executive set, who were like rabid dogs for something more tawdry and watchable than the prime-time train wreck that had captivated viewing audiences the year before.

The producer offered me a bonus. I had demurred, not eager to get caught up in the same greediness as the rest of the starry-eyed hopefuls. He had insisted. I waited a couple of seconds—long enough to assuage my diminishing standards—and then caved. It's how the game is played. The bridge to the moral high road has been out for a long time in Hollywood. There's crazy, which is still bankable to the right demographic and with the right spin, and then there's outright lunacy. People get a whiff of the latter, and they stop returning your calls.

That's when the rumors start. Given my career trajectory over the last decade, I didn’t need more rumors.

Other than a couple of weekend gigs, there hadn't been much going on. I didn't mind that, but Mrs. Chow—my erstwhile landlord, even though the bungalow on the back of her lot was mine, free and clear—had started to harangue me about getting out of the house. Too many early morning visits from her and her tiny Pekinese.

The dog wasn't allowed in my house—not after what he did last time—but Mrs. Chow had a tendency to ignore boundaries. This morning, Baby Baby had been running back and forth under my window, barking at who the fuck knows what. Sunbeams. Dragonflies. God, that dog was annoying.

I had thrown on some clothes and gone down to Wilie’s, where I did my morning tai chi routine with a couple of the regulars, followed by an hour with the bag and rope. Afterward, a shower and a half hour or so of listening to Willie talk through the investment section of the paper. Eventually, I wandered off, taking the long way home so as to watch the late summer beach bunnies cavort along the boardwalk. And to get a dog at Horatio’s stand.

A pretty good day, all in all, until I got to the hot dog stand.

I finished the first of my mall-bought hot dogs, and regarded the second one with some dismay. It looked like a grey earthworm that had been fried in a microwave, and the bun was more like cardboard than processed white bread. No amount of mustard, onions, and relish was going to mask the terrible taste of processed food that had been smothered in plastic and then flash-frozen.

I almost missed prison food.

A gaggle of giggly young women at a nearby table provided a distraction from the not-real food on my plate. The quartet was matched in designer tops and short skirts. You could almost tell their home zip codes from their hair styles, and their nails were all shiny with the latest shades.

As I watched, one slipped a tiny bottle from her oversized purse. She dumped the contents into a cup emblazoned with the rictus grin of one of the burger chain mascots. She snapped the plastic lid back on the cup and shoved it toward the woman sitting on her left. The woman shook her head, and I heard her say something about driving, but most of her words were drowned out in a chorus of mean-spirited peer pressure.

The prudent one made a face at the harassment from the other three, but she picked up the cup and sucked delicately from the straw. The others—who had clearly been hitting the sauce and soda for awhile—whooped and laughed.

Gee, it wasn't hard to figure out where they were headed.

I gave the dead earthworm in the sawdust box a decent burial in the trash and left the noisy food court. Watching college-age women get drunk before they went into Tijuana for some south of the border action wasn't going to get my packaged delivered. For all I knew, Frolic had someone watching me, ready to snap an entire roll of film that could be sent to the DEA.

The agency hadn’t been thrilled about the story in The LA Times, even though their name hadn’t come up. I had kept things vague when I had called Al Tonkin at the City Desk from a pay phone in Monterey. Al was the one who had done the digging and asked all the questions. It was the DEA's own damn fault for not running a tighter operation. Of course, no government agency likes being slapped about for being sloppy, and shit always trickles down. Going to Oregon had been an attempt to avoid the trickle down.

No, if Frolic was DEA, then she was fucking her own people, and while I wouldn't be surprised if that was how government agency spooks played with each other, I felt like she was working another angle.

I didn’t know what she was up to, which meant the best approach was to cover my end. It's like Mr. Chow always said: The man who knows his place is never surprised.

I wandered past a cavernous pet store, stopped, and went back. No amount of industrial air freshener could hide the fact that too many cats and dogs and ferrets and what-not were living in cages. There were fish tanks, bird cages, and large aquariums that housed reptiles. A gangly kid, wearing a t-shirt with the store's logo on it, was peering myopically through a set of unflattering eyeglasses at the fish tanks.

He was making notes on a clipboard, and I thought someone should rescue him from the drudgery of counting fish. I went into the store and approached him.

More than twenty? I asked

Wh-what?

How do you keep track of the ones you've counted already?

I'm not counting fish, he said sullenly.

The page on his clipboard had a long list of fish, and beside many of them were handwritten numbers.

My mistake, I said. I reached for my bill roll and peeled off a twenty. You know anything about snakes? I asked.

I, uh, yeah, he said. A little.

I need something better than that, I said.

I'm—I'm not sure—

I dropped another twenty on top of the first one.

—yeah, okay, I can be your expert, he amended nervously. 

Great. Come with me.

Out . . . out of the store?

Do I look like I have a snake shoved down my pants? I asked.

It was the wrong choice of words. Somewhere, Frolic was laughing.

The kid blushed and started stammering. His eyes flicked back and forth between me