“Yeah, well, they’re doing a bang-up job of it.” I tried to complete a deep breath—a fat rat scurried from under a garbage bin out into the slash of lamplight.
Fry said, “Who are you getting close to? Who are you making nervous?”
“I…have a lead. A big one, but I can’t tell you where it’s from. There’s this doctor, a wannabe producer named Bahari.”
The alley was dark, dead still.
“Fry—everything bad that happened to that band went down after this doctor got involved. And supposedly he kicked Rey out of the group, like, a few weeks before he was killed. And…and Fountain Grove—they’re together.”
“Bahari’s with the DJs?”
“They gotta be—it’s a program.”
“You really think so?”
“A hundred percent. Dr. Bahari runs a bogus vitamin lab—health solutions for seniors, right? First they hook elderly people, people on their last legs, to invest in this crap, they lock ’em into some kind of culty residency at the estates—drain them of their resources, who knows what else. The guy down there, my lovely tour guide, even insinuated they had some kind of…euthanasia program.”
Fry said, “Wow.”
“Wow is right. These fucking guys are pulling the ultimate comprehensive elder scam. And it’s more of that same aggressive positivity bullshit—mind power über alles. Bahari started with the youth, right? Teen potential. But then he saw where the really big bucks were—the boomer set, going geriatric.”
Fry went silent. Then he said, “I buy it. But euthanasia’s not even illegal here, Addy. And I don’t get what any of this has to do with some garage band from a zillion years ago.”
“These guys—Kip, Rog, Bahari—they’re crooks. They got their hands in all kinds of funny business. Let’s say it’s not only about replacing Durazo with a drum machine. Let’s say Rey found something out—something bad. He’s pugnacious, ballsy—that’s how his cousin described him, anyway. Well—I can’t tell you how I know, but I know that Durazo was flat-out snooping on Bahari.”
“So he stumbles onto something he shouldn’t know and—”
“And he gets vocal—maybe he even threatens. I mean—he’s part of this punker gang, he isn’t afraid of shit, right? He talks back. And maybe this Bahari doesn’t cotton to that. He shuts Durazo up for good and wipes his hands of the whole shebang.”
“You check into the vitamin lab?”
“Yup—nothing there, it’s a front. It looks completely bogus. And no address for Bahari either. It’s like, midnineties he disappeared into the ether.”
“Okay, okay,” Fry said, contemplating. “I’ll try to find out where this Bahari character lives. But meanwhile—you go home. And I mean straight home, lie low. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars. You got me?”
“Roger.”
I signed off and caught a breath in the dark, then spun the car out of the alley and headed for Santiago Labs, ready to race home, park fast, skip up the stairs, into my room, and doublelock the door.
But as I pulled up, I spotted a car out front—one of those new-style beefy, boxy Arabian gray All-Wheel G-Class Benzos—a quarter-million bucks in a single ride. At first I didn’t flinch, but as I got closer, their lights went on. I kept driving and they pulled out, turned, started tailing.
I cut up Cattaraugus and so did they.
I picked up the pace and so did they.
I tore onto Washington and so did they.
Now we were both pimp-slapping the speed limit, racing down the late-night boulevard, headed for nothing but the sea. On impulse, I peeled right into some residentials after Costco and completely fucked myself, cornered into a three-way cul-de-sac, game over. The Benzo screeched behind me—woman driver with dark Italian eyes was at the wheel—she shot me a sympathetic look. A slim blond man hopped out of the back seat brandishing the butt of a pistol in his jeans. He tapped my window. With great reluctance, I rolled it down. The night streets of Venice were dead silent.
Blond Man grinned. “The fuck you runnin’ for, fraidy cat?”
I didn’t answer.
“You’re Zantz. True?”
I didn’t answer.
“And you want to speak with Dr. Bahari—true?”
Our eyes met.
“That was quick,” I said.
“Yeah, well,” he said, “Doc’s been eager to see you.”
I took it in.
He thumbed west. “Follow us.”
32
Rich car, poor car. I tailed them onto PCH and we shot up the silent coast, past Chautauqua, up Topanga, the dark beachside forest with its sloping, scorched earth, up-up-up the steep mountain. A wisp of night fog hung over heavy trees of mustard, violet, crimson—my tension mounted with every curve. I reached for the burner to call Fry but what could I tell him? I had no idea where the hell I was headed. The forest opened up into a forest ghetto of majestic hippie mansions, one after another, a whole village of ’em, on and on toward what seemed like the end of the line, a dirt dead end sloping off to a long, descending gravel driveway that led into darkness.
This road, this darkness—I was like a moth taking one last look at the flame before flying in.
But what else could I do? I tailed them down the rocky road.
Then the Benz came to an enormous wrought iron gate, they stopped, and Blond Man jumped out again, waved a hand for me to come out. Instead, I rolled down the window.
