Urban Enemies (Cainsville 4.5)

"All the same, ain't they? Some dame with legs and a problem. Some mook with too much chin. Boring as shit." His window looked down on the back lot, and I watched a pair of covered wagons pulled by production assistants roll past an Egyptian throne made of plaster.

"You mind telling me why I'm here?" I asked. A guy dressed as a mummy walked behind the throne, smoking a cigarette. I hoped those bandages were fireproof.

"Tom Mason," he said. "Some old fossil from back in the day when this place was real cowboys and Indians. Studio used him on a few pictures as a consultant--you know, the guy who tells Tom Mix and Gene Autry how to sit on a horse."

I waited, because he could have wanted me to beat the hell out of the guy or find him a fancy hooker. You could never tell with Louie. He was mercurial--that was the word. Unpredictable, like a starving coyote.

"Tom's been working for a friend of mine down at our distinguished competition," said Louie. "Doing some B picture. Anyway, there was an incident with one of the actresses--nothing serious, just a girl thinking she's more important than she is--and now Tom is shooting his mouth off crazy-like, threatening to go to the cops."

Louie went to his desk and took out a small clear bottle, the kind you keep under lock and key in a hospital. "Visit him, Lee. See what he has to say." The bottle changed hands. Louie's were soft and manicured. You'd think he'd never administered a beating in his life. "He's an ornery cuss, so come bearing gifts. My friend's been keeping him sweet with this."

I rolled the bottle before I pocketed it. Morphine is a fickle bitch. Your best friend one minute, and a screaming, knife-nailed whore the next.

I didn't know Tom Mason, but I already felt sorry for him.

I felt worse when I pulled up at his house--the worst-off one on a street full of cracker-box bungalows where everything was covered in a sheen of dust. The Santa Anas were blowing, coating the entire city with a fine powder that worked its way everywhere. At night, the sky glowed orange with the sheen of wildfires in the canyons.

Tom Mason's porch sagged under my weight, and I squinted through a dirty window. I caught a glimpse of a sofa covered in laundry and a table littered with empty plates and bottles of the cheapest rotgut you could panhandle your way into.

Whoever this guy was, I didn't think he warranted the wrath of Louie Montrose. But what did I know? I was a leg breaker, nothing more. I cleaned up the vomit, shooed the boyfriends out of the lantern-jawed stars' stately homes, threw away the needles in the ingenues' dressing rooms, and bounced a union rep or two off a brick wall, as the occasion called for. A man in my situation couldn't ask for much more.

The front door to the place was locked, but not in any serious way. A few seconds with a lock pick and a shove, and stale, stench-laden air floated out to greet me. It smelled like a terminal ward and a hobo toilet had run off together and gotten married.

Hell, I'd smelled worse. I stepped in.

Light spoke in the darkness, a flash like a camera bulb, except it came with a roar of sound that slammed me high in the chest and knocked me on my ass in the doorway.

Someone grabbed my legs and dragged me inside. The door slammed, and everything went dark.

The someone prodded me over, found my wallet, and lifted it. They felt at my hip and found my gun, too. A nice little automatic that I was sad to lose, but I had bigger problems, like the gaping hole in my chest.

My lungs sucked when I tried to breathe, and I felt the weight of blood as they tried to inflate. The asshole who'd taken his shot stopped feeling me up and regarded me, bloodshot blue eyes buried in a mug that was more furrows than face. Ugly son of a bitch.

I sat up and head-butted him, square in his bulging, vein-riddled nose. There was a crack, and a scream, and he crab-walked backward, screeching.

"You son of a bitch," I said. I felt the front of my shirt. Blood, and underneath, hamburger. "This was my favorite suit."

"Jesus!" Tom Mason screeched. "Jesus fucking Christ!"

The big cannon was still in his hand--a Colt Peacemaker, the same kind Wyatt Earp had carried. Single-action, six chambers full of pure destruction.

I got up, even though it hurt. Tom Mason pissed himself, and the sourness tickled my nostrils.

"Relax," I said as I took away the Colt. The weight was good and familiar. I missed strapping on the iron, but fashions change, and you can't exactly stroll through the gates at Paramount with a holster on your hip.

Tom Mason had clearly not gotten the memo.

"Who . . . what . . . ," he started.

"Lee Grey," I said. "Louie Montrose sent me."

"You . . . how . . ." His eyes were bloodshot and glassy. He was fighting the dope, trying to understand.

"It's a long story," I said. "Mind if I sit?" My chest hurt like hell. It was going to take some time to knit that mess back together.

Tom Mason stumbled up, rattling the collection of bottles on his table until he found one that had an inch of liquid left. He drained it, never taking his eyes off me. "Few days ago, I would've said you were the devil himself."

"Not even close," I said. I could feel the slug sitting under my shoulder blade, a small dull flame that I'd have to cut out sooner or later. Now, though, I needed to find out what had Tom Mason so jumpy that he was unloading on anyone who walked up his steps.