Destroying Angel Read online

  He walked to the other end of the balcony and a second door leading back into the building. He opened the door, stepped through, and entered a world of shimmering lights and colored smoke, dizzying stairways and precarious balconies, steaming tables and glass reflections, and an incessant babble of voices that nearly washed out the underlying sounds of clacking cards and tiles, rattling glasses, and strains of music.

  Tanner walked between two sets of jinking tables to the nearest interior balcony and looked over the railing. The swirling smoke was so thick he could not see more than two floors down. A man approached Tanner and asked if he wanted into any of the games or intimacy booths. Tanner shook his head, and the man bowed and left. Tanner located the nearest staircase—a constantly reversing double helix that shook with each of his footsteps—and descended.

  He descended through warm, billowing smoke and dancing electric lights. The restaurant floor smelled thickly of curry and peanut oil. The floor below that smelled of musk and incense, and throbbed with a deep, steady bass line more felt than heard. More gaming floors followed, wild and raucous except the last, the second floor, which was quiet and hushed, the sounds from above and below silenced by huge arrays of acoustical baffles mounted on the balconies. Tanner paused, watching the serious-looking players seated at the tables, most of them wearing mirrorshades and subdued suits, most of them smoking, most of them drinking. It was all show, Tanner knew. The real players, the real games, with irrevocable stakes, were deep in the Tenderloin buildings and out of public view—high above ground level in the heart of interior mazes, or buried in below-ground bunkers.

  Tanner continued to the ground floor, an open concourse ringed by trash arcades, electronics boutiques, video parlors, bars, and tea shops. He worked his way through the crowd, out open doors, and onto the streets.

  The mist had ceased falling, but the warm night air was still thick with moisture. The sidewalks teemed with people, and the streets were filled with the chaotic motion of scooters, mini delivery vans, pedal carts, and jitneys. The light streamers danced in the air above him, periodically coalescing to form advertisements:

  JUNEBUG MICROBIOTICS—JACK INTO LIFE!

  TESTOSTERONE DAYS, PREMIERING TONIGHT

  CHANNEL 37B, 2:00 A.M.

  CHUNGS NIGHT SKY SECURITY—A NEW CAREER ON THE EDGE.

  Tanner walked down the street, feeling the energy rush rise within him, the pump of excitement. He understood why people lived here by choice—life played out at higher levels of intensity than anywhere else in the city, and that intensity never let up, night or day. He knew how addictive that could be. Almost anything could be addictive, and Tanner often thought that everybody alive was addicted to something.

  He stopped at a sheltered sidewalk café and sat at a table with a view of the street, just under the awning. When the waiter came he ordered coffee, wishing he could handle an espresso, but his stomach was strung tight and sensitive. He sat back to watch the people on the street.

  A young woman came up to Tanner, took his hand warmly in hers, and kissed him deeply on the mouth. She sat across from him, setting her handbag on the table. She was Southeast Asian, and wore a short black dress over skintight metallic black leggings. A band of pulsing energy beads circled her neck. Three glistening blue tears were tattooed to her left cheek. Tanner had never seen her before.

  “I don’t know you,” he said.

  The woman smiled, shaking her head. “No.”

  “Do you know me?”

  “No,” she said, still smiling. “Will you buy me coffee?”

  Tanner hesitated, not wanting to get into anything unexpected. It had been too long since he had spent any real time in the Tenderloin, and it would take a while to get back into the rhythm of its ways, relearn the codes and patterns of its streets. “All right,” he eventually said. “But I’m not interested in buying anything else.”

  The woman nodded once. “Fine with me. I just want to get off my feet for a few minutes.”

  The waiter brought Tanner’s coffee, and when the woman ordered a double espresso, Tanner smiled to himself. She did not tell him her name, nor ask him his. In fact, she did not seem to be at all interested in talking to him. She sat facing the street, and Tanner watched her as she watched the people moving past. He did not think she was looking for anyone in particular, her gaze seemed too passive and relaxed. He drank his coffee slowly, his attention shifting back and forth from the woman to the street.

  Rat packs in metal-strip rags sauntered past, each member with a pack color bead tied to the end of hair-loop earrings.

  Head tuners strolled along the sidewalk, hawking their plugs and bands. Street musicians played their instruments, sale discs dangling from their clothes. Small-time drug dealers moved among the crowds, offering what Tanner and almost everyone else on the street knew was shit so stepped on there was nearly nothing left for a buzz; but they had customers anyway, those who couldn’t afford anything else, or who no longer cared. The sidewalk was so thick with people Tanner only caught occasional glimpses of the various carts and vans moving along the roadway itself.

  When her espresso came, the woman took a jimsonweed stick from her purse and chewed on it between sips of her espresso. Tanner guessed the stick was also laced with ameline. She was going to get one hell of a kick soon.

  She finished off the espresso, popped the rest of the stick in her mouth, and chewed on it as if it were gum. Then she grabbed her purse, stood, leaned over, and kissed him again, this time on the cheek. “Thanks, honey.”

  “What are the tears for?” he asked on impulse.

  She gave him a sad smile. “One for every month he’s been away.”

  He had the feeling she was quoting something—a song, perhaps. The woman turned quickly and walked off, sliding easily into the crowd.

  Tanner’s coffee was nearly gone, and he signaled the waiter for a refill, then returned his attention to the street. Things happen, he thought, and most of them don’t mean a damn thing. He wondered if the woman meant anything.

  As he drank his coffee and watched the people move past him, Tanner thought about finding Rattan. He had no real plan yet, no step-by-step procedure to follow; there was no rigorous procedure he could follow in this case. He just had to work his way back into the flow of the Tenderloin, reestablish some contacts, send out a few feelers, and hope.

  The one thing he did know was that he would start in the Euro Quarter. Despite being half-Mongolian, Rattan would go nowhere near the Asian Quarter, and would probably stay away from the Latin, Arab, and Afram Quarters as well. Once he had gone to ground, the cops would have looked in the Euro Quarter first, but Rattan would have expected that; and it was in the Euro Quarter that he would have the best protection, the most loyalty, the best sense of security. He had been somewhere the last year, and Tanner felt certain it was the Euro. He sure as hell hoped Rattan was not holed up in the Core.

  Tanner looked at the card Alexandra had given him. Rachel, her sister, lived in the Euro Quarter, near the edge of the Latin. That’s where he should be now. But he wasn’t ready just yet. He remained at the table, drinking his coffee, watching, and letting the Tenderloin wash over him.

  O O O O

  Tanner ended the night on the outer edges of the Euro Quarter. It was nearly dawn, the coolest part of the day, when he arrived at the building where Alexandra’s sister lived. Not cool, exactly, but no longer hot, and that was something. The building was a twelve-story monstrosity of scarred brick, splintered wood, and dangling, disconnected sections of a metal fire escape—anyone above the second floor would have to jump if there was a fire.

  A pack of teenagers blocked the building doors, ten or twelve boys and girls wearing pressed brown shirts and red arm bands emblazoned with black swastikas. That shit never dies, Tanner thought. It was one of the few things that still surprised him whenever he saw it, though he should have known better.

  He pushed his way through the pack, and they grudgingly gave way to h
im. He guessed he was white enough for them. Tanner wondered if it was an all-white building; and what, if anything, that said about Alexandra’s sister. Rachel. Some kind of biblical name, he thought.

  The lobby was dark and smelled of mold. Rotting gold foil wallpaper peeled away from dark red walls, and large sections of the carpet were worn through to the flooring. Tanner walked past a huge bank of metal mailboxes and stopped in front of the elevators. One was closed, marked with an Out of Order sign. The other was open, and a dim light burned inside, illuminating a sign that had been taped to the back wall:

  USE THIS ELEVATOR AND YOURE DEAD, MOTHERFUCKER

  Rachel lived on the eleventh floor, but Tanner decided he could use the exercise.

  Fifteen minutes later, breathing heavily, Tanner reached the eleventh floor and leaned against the stairwell doorframe, gazing down the long hall. He had to smile at the possibility that Rachel would not even be here. He could not imagine why he had not thought to call first. Once again he looked at the card Alexandra had given him. Yes, there was a phone number.

  He walked along the hall, glancing at the room numbers, metal figures tacked to the doors. He could hear faint music, barking voices, clattering, a yowl, running water. Rachel’s apartment was at the far end of the hall, and he stopped in front of the door, reading the several handwritten quotations pinned to the dark wood. “Deep in the hearts of all men is a black core that needs purification.”

  “White, white, everywhere it was white, and all was good.”

  “Trust not in yourself, until you know you are pure.”

  “And then the angels rose up and destroyed them all.” Tanner did not have a good feeling about Rachel.

  He knocked on the door and waited. A few moments later a voice called out from within. “Who is it?”

  “Louis Tanner. Alexandra said she talked to you about me.”

  Rachel did not answer, but Tanner heard a bolt being thrown. He expected to hear several more locks being released, so he was surprised when the door opened after the first.

  Alexandra was right. Rachel’s face was just like hers, except for her hair, which was shorter; but the body was not even close. Rachel stood less than five feet tall, supporting herself with a cane in her right hand. She wore a pale brown dress that reached her calves, and heavy black shoes, the right built up six or seven inches.

  Rachel stared at him a moment, her eyes with a hard glitter, then backed away, swinging the door wide. “Come on in,” she said, her voice a harsh growl. “I just got back from work, getting ready for sleep.”

  Tanner stepped inside and Rachel shut the door, locking it. The front room was sparsely furnished, but immaculate and well lighted.

  “Nice bunch of kids at the street entrance,” he said.

  Rachel shrugged. “They help keep out the impure.”

  Was she serious? Christ, he thought, a Purist? Did Alexandra know? Why hadn’t she told him?

  “You look tired,” Rachel said.

  “I’ve been up all night.”

  “That’s pretty standard around here,” she responded. “But I guess I know what you mean. You’ve been up all day, too, right? Out there?”

  Tanner nodded.

  “Come on, then, I’ll show you where you’ll sleep. Like I said, I’m going to bed myself.”

  She limped across the room, digging at the floor with her cane, and Tanner followed her to the hallway, then into the first room on the right. She flipped on the light, revealing a small room with a desk and chair and a futon. On the futon was a neat stack of folded sheets and blankets, and a pillow. “Your bed. I’ll show you the rest of the place.”

  In the hall, she pushed open a door on the left with her cane. “Bathroom.” Then, farther down, she swung her cane and banged on a closed door. “My bedroom. You stay out of it.”

  Tanner didn’t say a thing. Rachel led the way into the last room, the kitchen, which had large windows that looked out at more buildings across the way. The gray light of the coming dawn came in through the windows, casting soft shadows across the floor.

  “You can help yourself to any of the food here,” Rachel said. “But don’t bother looking for booze, I don’t have any.” With that she turned away and limped back down the hall. She opened her bedroom door, went inside without turning on a light, then slammed the door shut. This time he did hear several locks and bolts—one, two, three, four.

  Tanner walked back down the hall and into his room. He sat on the futon and leaned back against the wall. He had expected to like Rachel because she was Alexandra’s sister, because Alexandra had arranged this for him. Now, finding that he did not like her at all made him uncomfortable. Alexandra had warned him, but still, this was worse than he had expected, especially if she was a Purist. He wondered if he could stay here very long while he looked for Rattan. For tonight, yes, or this morning, whatever it was, get a few hours’ sleep. But how much longer? Maybe he could stay out of her way, not see her much.

  Not a good start, he said to himself. But at least he could sleep; he was exhausted. He undressed, turned out the light, and lay out on the futon, not bothering to set up the sheets or blankets. Tanner closed his eyes and slept.

  SIXTEEN

  TANNER WOKE TO the strong aroma of coffee. He looked at his watch, saw that it was just after noon. Through the open door he could hear trickling water, footsteps creaking wood, and generalized city sounds filtering in through open windows. He had slept deeply, without any dreams that he could remember, and he felt rested.

  Tanner showered, finishing off with cold water to cut through the heat of the day. He dressed, the sweat already dripping under his arms, then walked down to the end of the hall.

  The kitchen was empty. It had a different feel now, light and open. All the windows were open wide, letting in the damp heat and the city sounds. The kitchen table was set for two, including a filter-pitcher of clear water. On the counter was a coffee maker, the pot full and steaming. Next to the coffee, laid out on a cutting board, were eggs, chopped onions and tomatoes, and a pile of grated cheese.

  “Good morning.” Rachel’s head appeared outside the window above the sink. She was smiling. “Come on out,” she said. She gestured to his left. “Around the corner’s a door.”

  Tanner skirted the table, squeezed past the bulky fridge and around the corner to an open door leading out to a wooden platform built onto the walls of the building. An awning of clear plastic sheltered the platform, letting through light but, presumably, keeping off the rain. The platform was covered with potted plants, most blossoming with large, colorful flowers. Rachel, barefoot and dressed in a loose sarong, moved among the plants with a pink watering can, poking at the dirt with her fingers. Tanner was stunned by the bright, lush, unbroken green of the leaves—no brown streaks or spots, no holes eaten away by the rain.

  Rachel set down the watering can and sat on a bench against the wall. Her arms and face glistened with sweat. “Have a seat,” she said.

  Tanner sat beside her. She bent forward to massage her right leg, moving from thigh to calf and back.

  “You like eggs?” she asked. “Cheese, onions, tomatoes?” She turned to him and smiled. “A shot or two of Tabasco?”

  “Sure. If you’ll hold the Tabasco.”

  “Great, I’ll make us an omelet. Coffee’s already done, or I could find some tea if you prefer.”

  “No, coffee’s fine, thanks.”

  She released her leg, stretched her back. “Come on, then.”

  They went back inside, Rachel’s limp more pronounced without the built-up shoes. Now Tanner noticed the six-inch blocks fixed to the floor in front of the stove, counter, and sink. Rachel gathered up the food on the counter and carried it to the stove. With her right foot on the block, she started the omelet.

  “Anything I can do?” Tanner asked.

  “How about pouring us some coffee?”

  There were two glass mugs next to the coffee maker, and Tanner filled them, brought one to Rachel
at the stove, then sat at the table with his.

  The coffee was hot and strong, and he drank it slowly as he watched her cook. Soon the smell of frying butter joined the coffee aroma, and then she was pouring eggs into the pan with a loud sizzle. Tanner felt relaxed and almost peaceful. It seemed like such a traditional domestic scene. He thought of mornings like this spent with Valerie and Connie, either in his place or at their apartment in San Jose; usually he had done the cooking. Sour cream french toast and bacon had been his specialty and Connie’s favorite. The last time had been more than a year ago, but it seemed much longer—another century, another goddamn life. Most of the time he doubted he would ever experience anything like that again. This world stinks, Tanner thought.

  Rachel turned off the gas, cut the omelet in half, then brought the pan to the table and slid a half onto each plate.

  “Thanks,” Tanner said.

  She set the pan on the table and sat across from him with a shrug. “Least I could do.” She poured two glasses of water from the pitcher. “Sorry about this morning. You showed up at a bad time.”

  He expected her to go on, explain further, but she didn’t. Instead, she opened a plastic bottle next to the pitcher, shook out three white tablets. She popped all three into her mouth and swallowed them with half a glass of water.

  Tanner looked at the bottle, then at Rachel, but did not ask the question. He knew they were not vitamins, and it was none of his business.

  Rachel shrugged, then gave a short laugh. “Dilaudid,” she said. “Only way I can keep the edge off the pain.”

  Dilaudid. It reminded Tanner of McMurphy, who had been Freeman’s prime snitch. McMurphy used to take Dilaudid for “headaches.” Last time Tanner had seen him, the crazy son of a bitch was getting headaches three or four times a day, popping those things and dry-swallowing them. McMurphy hated needles.

  They did not talk while they ate, which was fine with Tanner. The omelet was good, and he was enjoying it. He was even, for some reason, enjoying the heat. The water, too, was good, tasted clean but not sterile. He pulled the pitcher close and looked at the filter. Braun.