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CHAPTER 1

City of Angels

Something was off. Everything was off. Eddie could feel it. Felt it ever since he woke up this morning, in fact, that sense of something, everything, being ... off. Not that anything had been right to begin with. Fucking season was off, that was for sure. Summer in L.A. and rained every day for the past two weeks. When Saul had called his cell right as he'd sat down with some shitty Chinese takeout for a relaxing night of shitty TV and said "Eddie, I need you to make a house call. Floyd will pick you up in thirty" and Eddie said, "What, right now? What the guy do, shit on your lawn?" and Saul didn't even answer, just hung up, Eddie knew that something was off about the whole thing and his sense of foreboding with him since breakfast had been very fucking apt indeed. Now, walking through a hallway toward the guy's condo, about to wave a gun around and threaten murder, the sensation had only increased.

"We just putting the fear into him," Floyd said. "Owes big. Boss said Bill always pays, but he late and we gotta scare his ass."

"Why such short notice?" Eddie said.

"Bill made a surprise visit to town, that's why. I watched a movie with the wife last night. No Country for Old Men. You seen it?"

"Nah."

"Watch that shit. There's a hitman, looks like the devil if the devil was a cowboy. Cold motherfucker. Don't even use a normal gun. Instead uses a cattle gun. A fuckin' cattle gun. Carries around a tank of gas."

They reached Bill's door and faced each other.

"Sounds inconvenient," Eddie said. "The gas tank."

"Point is, this hitman has a thing for fate. Flips a coin and makes you choose if you gonna live or die. And that's it. That's the only chance you got with this nigga. He don't care about money, and he don't care about what you have to say. He flips that coin, you live or you die."

"Sounds fair."

"Fair? What's fair about killing a motherfucker?"

"Not that part, the coin toss. Everyone gets an equal chance."

"Yeah, but you can't buy your way out of it with this man, or reason with him."

"So he's got principles," Eddie said.

"You think there's people like that?"

"Sure. Why not?"

"The man don't make sense. Who don't want money?"

"You probably wouldn't make sense to him."

"So, you think there's badass killer cowboys walking around, flipping coins and bustin' caps?"

"There's every kind of person in this world."

Floyd faced the door. "I ever meet a motherfucker like that, I got some questions. You ready?"

Eddie nodded.

Floyd pounded on the door.

It opened to a fat Texan in a silken dressing gown, his hairy chest exposed, a gold chain dangling over it.

"You must be Bill," Floyd said.

"Who the fuck are you?" Bill said through his handle-bar mustache.

"The Angel of Mercy." Floyd shoved Bill into the apartment. Bill slipped on the tile and fell onto his ass, a pale testicle flopping out of his boxer shorts. "Or the Angel of Vengeance. Depends whose door I'm knocking on."

Eddie couldn't help smirking. The man should be on the stage.

Floyd stepped forward as Bill crawled backwards through the kitchen toward the living area. An aquarium built into the wall on the right cast a shimmer across his face, a dozen neon fish swimming in circles inside it like a gang of simpletons.

"God sent us here, Bill," Floyd said. "He ain't happy with you."

"What are you talking —"

"What city we in right now, Bill?"

"Los Angeles."

"And who's god round here?"

Realization dawned on Bill's face. "I'll get the money," he said, pulling himself onto the sofa. "That's what I'm here for, in L.A. Collecting a payout. I just need a couple more days."

"Oh, you'll get the money? Well shit, why didn't you say so? You hear that Eddie? It's all good, nigga's gonna get the money, our work here is done."

Floyd took a step away from Bill and spun, fist raised. The blow hit hard: Bill slid off the sofa, little moans spilling out of him.

"Listen to me you redneck motherfucker and listen good," Floyd said, "'cause if I have to repeat myself, I'll fuck up the other side of your face too. You ever try take a piss with two eyes swollen up like balloons, Bill? You can't see the toilet, you're hitting the floor, the walls, the fuckin' ceiling. It ain't fun."

Floyd paused, relaxing his shoulders. "I can't leave here empty-handed, Bill."

"I don't have the money right now, but I can get it tomorrow."

"Didn't I just warn you about making me repeat myself?" Floyd sighed, and pulled his pistol out of the waist of his blue suit. Bill shivered like a canary.

That sense of foreboding came over Eddie again. He could feel himself getting paranoid, thinking what if it meant something terrible, grim reaper with a bony hand on your shoulder, all that shit. It wasn't the thought of dying that scared him — when you've been breaking into people's homes and moving product and waving guns around every day for two years the idea of death becomes about as scary as a dinner party with strangers — it was the thought of this being all he ever amounted to: Eddie Vegas? Yeah, I remember him. Low life criminal, right? Used to work for Saul Benedict, run around pretending to be a thug? Oh, he's dead? Fuck 'im, he had it coming.

Floyd said, "You know, Bill, it's been a long time since I killed somebody for the first time." Observing the gun in his hand, looking sad and contemplative. More theatrics. "The shit just don't bother me no more. I can shoot a nigga and walk straight into McDonald's, get some fries and a Coke, enjoy myself. But that don't mean I like killing people. It's a pain in the ass, Bill, to be straight with you, disposing of the body, cleaning the place, checking the newspapers ..."

Eddie watched Bill. If any more blood left his cheeks the man would collapse.

"But at the same time," Floyd continued, "sometimes the best option is to get rid of the problem, remove it from your life, 'cause it just ain't worth the headache."

A female voice drifted from somewhere to the right, so quiet Eddie might have imagined it. He frowned. No, there it was again; almost inaudible, but there.

"Hey, Floyd, you hear that?"

Floyd looked back at him. "Hear what?"

"Listen."

Floyd cocked his head. His eyes narrowed.

"You got someone in here with you, Bill?" he said.

Bill shook his head.

"Watch him," Floyd said. "I'll check it out."

Floyd moved toward the closed door to the right of the living area. Eddie took his pistol out of his jeans and pointed it at Bill.

Floyd opened the door and the woman's voice spilled into the room like a song. She was moaning vigorously, without a doubt being fucked in there.

"What in the hell ..." Floyd said, staring into the room openmouthed.

When Eddie faced Bill again the fucker was up and running at him, a wild determination in his eyes and the dressing gown flapping madly behind him.

"Fuck," Eddie said, and before he could make a decision, before he could even think about it, his finger tightened around the trigger. Bill's head flung backwards and his body followed, thumping against the floor. He lay sprawled on his back, blood dribbling out of the hole in his skull where an eye had been seconds before.

A moment of silence.

Floyd said, "You best have a good explanation for that."

Eddie just looked at him. The woman's moaning continued.

"Fuck you shoot him for?"

"I don't know, shit, he ran at me —"

"Ran at you? Why didn't you just hit him? Look at his fat ass — this ain't some Bruce Lee motherfucker."

"I didn't mean to, I just reacted —"

"Man, shut the fuck up." Floyd shook his head. "Saul gonna be pissed. Redneck owed him fifty Gs."

"Fuck."

"Yo' problem now."

"What?"

"You got to pay Saul."

"Do I look like I have that kinda dough?"

"You better start looking like it 'cause Saul ain't gonna shrug his shoulders and say 'Shit happens' over fifty Gs."

"Fuck. I'm fucked."

"No shit."

"What am I gonna do?"

Floyd tucked the pistol into his trousers. "Help me move his fat ass into that room while we figure out how to get him down the elevator."

"What was in there?"

Floyd smirked. "See for yourself."

Eddie stuck his head into the room and gasped. Four TV screens — one on each wall — played the same porno flick in sync; the entire floor was covered in squishy foam, the kind found in a martial arts gym; shelves at the back held what must have been the largest and most colorful dildo collection ever assembled; and, in the center of the room, a sex swing hung from the ceiling like suspension lines from a parachute.

"Christ," Eddie said.

"Motherfucker got issues."

Floyd grabbed Bill under each arm. "Get his legs."

Eddie lay his gun on the coffee table, his hand shaking as the adrenaline faded and cold reality took its place. He lifted Bill's heavy legs. Floyd shimmied backwards and Eddie shuffled after him, Bill's bloody face at his crotch. This close the man reeked of sweat and smoke. Eddie couldn't look at him.

They'd made it halfway when keys jangled in the front door of the apartment. They froze, Bill swaying between them.

The door opened and a young woman entered, humming to the music blasting from her headphones. She closed the door, placed her handbag on the marble countertop, breezed over to the fridge, and withdrew a carton of orange juice.

Eddie looked at Floyd, who looked back at him.

The woman took a swig from the carton and turned. Her eyes found Eddie and doubled in size. The juice hit the floor. For a second, no one moved.

The woman bolted for the door. Floyd went after her, Bill's skull thumping against the tile. The woman made it into the hallway for a grand total of three seconds before Floyd dragged her back into the apartment, hand clamped over her mouth. She kicked and screamed and thrashed her arms about.

"Ow," Floyd said, retracting his hand from her face as she flung her limbs at him. He punched her in the head and she crumpled to the floor. "Bitch bit me."

The woman lay sprawled on the tile, barely conscious. They observed her for a moment.

"Now what?" Eddie said.

"You know what. Find something to keep her quiet with case she wakes up and starts screaming. I'm gonna call Sawyer."

Eddie found duct tape in a kitchen drawer. The woman came to life as he stuck it over her mouth and immediately tried to scream, her fingers clawing at him. He removed his belt and tied her hands behind her back, then pointed the gun at her and made her kneel on the floor beside Bill.

Her eyes, screaming out of her head, terrified him. She couldn't have been older than twenty.

"I don't know about this," he said. "It's not right."

"Was it right when you did him?" Floyd said, nodding toward Bill.

"This is different."

"You wanna live the rest of your life in a six-foot prison cell? 'Cause I'll die before I go there again."

The woman screamed from behind her duct-taped lips.

Floyd said, "Best to use the same gun. Give it to me."

Eddie's heart hammered on his ribs. He looked at the pistol, a Smith & Wesson SD9, like an anchor in his fist.

The woman's squeals became unbearable.

"Shut up," he yelled. The gun rose and stared at her.

She went stiff as a surfboard.

Eddie could feel Floyd's gaze on his neck. A sour taste filled his mouth, his hand sliding on the coarse grip.

"Do it already," Floyd said. "Or I will."

Eddie stared into the woman's eyes. She looked familiar, the kind of young woman you'd pass on the street and think of as smart and confident and cute all at once.

"Eddie," Floyd said, stepping forward.

There was no other way. Eddie stilled his breath, said "I'm sorry," and squeezed.

Angeles National Forest

Any number of bodies could be buried in Angeles National Forest. Eddie remembered a news report a few months back about a man from Glendale clubbed to death and buried in a shallow grave off Big Tujunga Canyon Road. Cadaver dogs sniffed out the corpse after a hiker spotted pools of blood. The guy had been murdered so his killers could rob him. At the time it had seemed like a lot of trouble to go through just to steal from someone, but Eddie saw it differently now. Sometimes things unravel faster than you can keep up with them.

When Floyd told Eddie that the forest was where they'd be bringing the bodies, fear scraped a cold finger down his spine. Or maybe it was that reaper again.

"You done this before?" Eddie said.

"You really wanna ask me that?"

"How we gonna get them out there?"

"Sawyer's on the way in the S.U.V. He'll wait round the corner to avoid the cameras in the parking lot. Hard part will be getting them out this building."

"Any ideas?"

Floyd glanced at the two corpses sprawled across the foam floor of the sex room. Eddie had turned the porn on the TVs off, out of respect, and now a dreadful silence choked the air out of the room whenever they stopped speaking.

"One time, on an episode of The Americans, they hid a dead woman inside a suitcase," Floyd said.

"Christ."

"Had to break most of her bones first, though."

"Oh fuck, I'm not doing that."

"But wasn't the biggest suitcase. Redneck over there probably got a bigger one."

"Even if he does no way he's fitting in it."

"No, but she will."

"Okay, let's say we find a suitcase for her," Eddie said. "What do we do with him?"

He gnawed on a nail, wondering how the hell to move the fat bastard. It reminded him of the time his uncle Harvey had a stroke and fell down the stairs. Poor bastard couldn't walk for two weeks —

"Call Sawyer," Eddie said. "I have an idea."

They found a large suitcase and just about managed to fit the woman inside in the fetal position. Looking at her cramped in there, still as a doll, Eddie knew he'd crossed a line that could never be uncrossed. Shit, he'd be lucky to ever sleep again.

They wiped the place down with bleach while they waited for Sawyer, then sat on the sofa and watched cartoons, the same sofa they'd scrubbed clean of blood and shards of brain.

Ten minutes later someone knocked on the door. Eddie nearly jumped.

"Who there?" Floyd said.

"Jack Nicholson. Who you fucking think?"

Floyd opened the door and Sawyer strolled inside pushing a wheelchair.

"Got your wheels," he said to Eddie in his Southern drawl.

"Where'd you get it from?"

"Stole it from some guy on the street."

"You a bad motherfucker, stealing from a cripple," Floyd said.

"Least I didn't shoot him."

They lifted Bill into the wheelchair. Eddie found a cowboy hat in the bedroom and put it on Bill's head, the front tipped down over the hole through his skull.

"Ready to do this?" Floyd said.

No one answered him.

"Sawyer, you go down first, by yourself," Floyd said. "Look suspicious we all walk out together."

"He brought the wheelchair up," Eddie said. "It would be suspicious if he leaves without it, then we come down with Bill."

"All right, we all go, fuck it," Floyd said.

"Who's pushing the wheelchair?" Eddie said.

"Don't look at me, I ain't the one shot him," Sawyer said.

Floyd didn't say anything, didn't have to.

They made it to the elevator unseen, Eddie pushing Bill in the wheelchair, his head lolling side to side, and Floyd dragging the world's heaviest suitcase. Sawyer kept in front of Eddie in an attempt at hiding how dead Bill looked.

The elevator opened to the gleaming marble of the ground floor. An old couple chatted in a corner, away from the front doors. Otherwise, the place was empty, except for the concierge who hadn't noticed them yet.

"Someone needs to distract the guy behind the counter. I'll do it if you push him," Eddie said to Sawyer, eager to be rid of the corpses.

"Do it then."

Eddie strolled toward the concierge. "Hey, how you doin'? I'm hoping you could help me find someone." At the edge of his vision Floyd and Sawyer began moving.

"Find someone?" the concierge, a clean-cut guy in his thirties, said.

"Yeah, see, I, to be totally honest with you, I met this girl at a bar last night. Smoking hot. I mean sizzling. She gave me her number, told me to call her today, but, wouldn't you know it, I lost my cell. All I know is her name's Abigail, she's mid-twenties with dark hair and a figure that'd make the pope sin."

The guy looked amused. "I see. That's ... unfortunate, but, unfortunately, I can't give out information about the people who live here."

Floyd and Sawyer passed behind Eddie, halfway to the front doors. The concierge spotted them, his gaze following them now, a frown forming on his face.

"I know, man, I know," Eddie said, shuffling to the side to block his view. "I'm not gonna ask you to give out any information, I was just hoping I could leave a note with you and when you see her, you give it to her, that's all. You'd make my whole week."

"I would do that," the concierge said, looking at Eddie now, "except no one by the name of Abigail lives here."

"You know everybody's name who lives here?"

"I do," the concierge said with a whiff of pride.

"I'm impressed." Eddie glanced at the front doors. No sign of them. "I must have the wrong address then. Maybe she was bullshitting me the whole time. Either way, I drink too much. Thanks anyways." He tapped on the counter and made for the doors.

"Wait," the concierge said.

Eddie froze, heart in his ears. He turned around.

"It might be the building across the street," the concierge said.

"People always confuse it with ours."

"I'll check it out. Thanks," Eddie said, and strode out the building, relief surging through his bones.

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Excerpted from "Nobody Move"
by .
Copyright © 2019 Philip Elliott.
Excerpted by permission of Into The Void.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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