No Second Chances, page 1
Dedication
This one is for Tim Lebbon
Motörhead lover, Skype brother
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Part I: Canary 1: New L.A. Woman
2: Suicide
3: Soul Man
4: Making Moves
5: Rock Steady
6: Higher Ground
7: No Crime Without a Body
8: Birthday Present
9: The Flooded World
10: Three Horse Salvage
11: The World Falling Away
12: In a Bad Place
Part II: Stray Bullets 13: Dead Kitty
14: What Friends Do
15: The Hungry Wolf
16: Nueva Vida
17: Luke’s House
18: Happy Hour
19: Tera
20: El Camino Del Paraíso
21: Pale Bone
22: The Bat-Faced Man
23: City Woman Dreamin’
24: Rage
Part III: Showdown at the Rattlesnake Hotel 25: Chase
26: So Wrong
27: The Cali Viking
28: Mojave Green
29: Valhalla
30: Where the Lows Don’t Go
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Rio Youers
Copyright
About the Publisher
Part I
Canary
1
New L.A. Woman
Her favorite time, her favorite place. Nighttime on Sunset—the vibe, the opportunists, the neon signs throwing dreamy color. Everything about it made her feel alive. And at twenty-four, Kitty wanted to feel alive. It was why she had moved here.
She put her skateboard beneath her and rolled, breathing warm, tainted air. A smile—as wide and sweet as a slice of orange—broke across her face. She smelled exhaust, peppered steak, vape perfumes, a blend of colognes. A street performer played “What a Fool Believes” and high-fived her between chord changes. Her wheels thumped off the sidewalk.
Kitty Rae had been in Los Angeles four months. It still moved her, and her heart still made a hopeful, tinkling sound when she walked. She’d gone from waiting tables to bartending to selling Jell-O shots at Spearmint Rhino, all within a space of eleven weeks, then Kris “Sly Boy” Streeter had discovered her. Sly Boy was not the talent scout she’d been hoping for, but he lined her pockets in exchange for easy work. It was a start.
It also allowed her to move out of shared lodgings in MacArthur Park to a smaller—but all hers!—apartment in Silver Lake. It was several steps shy of the L.A. residence she’d imagined for herself, but she loved being on the third floor, where the rugged, hypnotically moving tops of the fan palms were at eye level. Even better was the way the setting sun caught her street and splashed the buildings with mauves and oranges. Passion Hour, she called it, even though it lasted only minutes, seven at the most.
Where I live, she’d posted on Instagram, beneath a photograph of her street draped in those rich colors. Her friends back in Louisville had commented: OMFG!! and, Sweeeeeet!! and, Yo still Kentucky bitch. Her mama—whose cheekbones Kitty had inherited, as well as her propensity to dream—had added, So beautiful babygurl but have U met any CELEBRITIES yet??
Well . . .
She’d seen Caitlyn Jenner at a photo shoot at the Getty, and Ezra Faustino arguing with a valet attendant outside a restaurant in North Hollywood (“I will fuck the fuck out of your shit!” Mr. Faustino had screamed). All that was lit, but what was totally lit was the fact that she lived opposite—opposite—Luke Kingsley.
Mama: Who?
Luke Kingsley, the troubled star of Ventura Knights and A Bullet Affair. Kitty told her mama this but Mama didn’t know those movies, so Kitty told her what Luke Kingsley was really famous for.
Mama: Oh shit!
He’d gone from a beautiful house in Sherman Oaks to a two-bedroom mission revival in Silver Lake. Kitty could stand at her window and look down into Luke’s living room—could see him watching TV in his boxers and eating Cap’n Crunch right out of the box. And okay, it wasn’t as cool as smoking weed with Seth Rogen or bumping beautifuls with Jamie Foxx, but—like working for Kris “Sly Boy” Streeter—it was a start.
Kitty picked up the goods from the trunk of a Cadillac parked in Norma Triangle (same Caddy every time, different location), then took a bus to East Hollywood and went to work. Twenty minutes in, she made Angelo’s drop: an ounce of crystal packed into the false bottom of a Starbucks cup, tossed into a trash can outside Slick’s Coin-Op Laundry on Melrose. Angelo’s boy arrived moments later. He dug through the trash can and removed the drop. Kitty snapped a photo from across the street—making like she was taking a selfie, although there was no reason for her, or anyone, to take a selfie in this neighborhood. She needed the photo, though, as proof the pickup had been made. Kitty had no dealings with the money side of things. She delivered the goods, that was all. She supposed Ruben—Sly Boy’s muscle, a man-shaped iron girder—collected, and God help the cranker who didn’t pay.
Kitty pocketed her phone, put her board beneath her, and skated away. She’d pushed once—rolled maybe ten feet—when Angelo stepped out from the doorway of Gray’s Marketplace, right in front of her, and she would’ve taken a spill if he hadn’t grabbed her upper arm.
She flipped the front of her board up, caught it in her right palm while trying to pull her left arm loose. But Angelo dug his fingers in and grinned.
“You gotta be more careful, girl.”
His real name was Salvador Gallo, but he had earned the nickname Angelo because of his soft black curls and doll-like good looks. He’d appeared in commercials for Gap and Tommy Hilfiger in the early 2000s, and was a semi-regular on the short-lived ABC sitcom Almost Always. Then his drug usage went from recreational to obscene, and that was the end of his career. Now his curls were laced with dirt and he had black grooves between his teeth. There was a canker on the side of his nose that never healed.
“Hands off, Angelo.”
“Or what?”
Sly Boy had warned her not to engage with the buyers. “Every degree of separation is a degree that will keep you out of prison,” he’d said. “You don’t want these people getting to know you. They will fuck you over if they get the chance.” Most of Kitty’s drops were clean. No contact. But a buyer would surface on occasion, assuming their presence was welcome.
Angelo, for example: “Why you always so quick to be gone? Don’t you know we could have a good time, me and you? We could take in the city. Do it all.”
She pulled her arm, but he held on.
“I know a man can get that face on the cover of a magazine. You want that, girl?” The lesion on his nose looked wet and sore in streetlight. “Your face on the cover of a magazine?”
“Just get your dirty fucking—”
Angelo suddenly let go, his hands raised like someone had pointed a .45 at him. It had nothing to do with Kitty struggling to free her arm, or anything she said, and everything to do with the sage-green Mustang—vintage Detroit muscle—cruising toward them. It slowed as it approached. The passenger window buzzed down and Kitty saw the Viking for the first time. He was comfortably into his twenties, ugly-handsome, with a crooked nose and narrow forehead. His long beard was fashioned into two points, a darker shade of blond than the hair that fell to his shoulders.
Kitty heard Angelo say, “Shit,” under his breath, then he turned and ran—bumped into an older lady, who called him a son of a bitch in Spanish and swiped at him with her purse. Angelo was out of range, though, scooting along Melrose with his dirty curls bouncing.
The Mustang voiced an oily, predatory snarl and rumbled on. Kitty watched its taillights for a moment, then skated to her next drop. And that should have been that. End of scene. Fade to black. Except she saw the Mustang again not forty minutes later, at a red light on Beverly. Kitty put it down to coincidence, but logged it. She made her delivery (an eight-ball stuffed into a Taco Bell wrapper) at a nearby bus stop, photographed the pickup, and checked her backpack. Three drops remaining, then home.
A third sighting of the Mustang—on Sunset this time, ten minutes from her apartment—put her on alert, which developed into a deeper concern when the vehicle started following, then drew alongside her. It matched her speed for fifty yards, give or take, with Kitty looking dead ahead, playing it cool. Maybe the driver would get bored and floor it if she didn’t react. Instead, the passenger window rolled down and the Viking’s voice rose above the engine’s steady rumble.
“You can really shift on that thing.”
Kitty ignored him. She zigzagged between pedestrians, lithe as a ribbon. Farther along Sunset, a siren whooped three times, like the call of some exotic bird, and acoustic music strummed from a late-night café.
“I’d like to talk to you,” the Viking said. “If you have a moment.”
“I don’t.” Now Kitty looked over. “And stop following me.”
Was he an undercover cop? Had he been watching her all night, or for weeks, and was now moving in for the bust? Kitty didn’t think so. She’d be more likely to get busted at the beginning of her route, with a backpack full of product. Or maybe they wanted to use her in a different way—to take down Sly Boy, perhaps. But even then, they would arrest her first, then turn up the heat.
No, she wasn’t getting a cop vibe. The Viking image didn’t fit, nor the late sixties ride. And although Kitty couldn’t see the driver sitt ing beside him, she could see his hands on the wheel. They were covered in tattoos—too much visible ink for a cop, even one deeply undercover.
“C’mon.” The Viking smiled. Maybe he didn’t mean to disarm her, but he did. He had a charming smile. “Two minutes. That’s all I need.”
If he wasn’t a cop, then his business was on the other side of the thin blue line. A pusher, perhaps, or a pimp. A lawbreaker, for sure, and one of renown, judging by the way Angelo had taken to his heels.
“Not interested,” Kitty said. The Micheltorena intersection was just ahead, where she’d usually turn right, skateboard partway up the hill, then hang a left onto her street. She wasn’t going to lead these goons to her apartment, though, which meant she had to lose them.
“I don’t give up easily,” the Viking persisted. “Also, I’m not following, I’m scouting.”
Two options: she could skate through a late-night store, exit via the back door, and shake them in the narrow residential streets north of Sunset. But even if she managed to give them the slip, how long before that old muscle car pulled alongside her again? They knew her face, after all . . . her route.
Her second option—to put a serious scare on the motherfuckers—would be more effective.
Kitty once saw Ruben Osterfeld take out three guys without losing a drop of sweat. She didn’t know him as well as she knew Sly Boy, but he’d passed along his number in case she ran into trouble on the streets. “You look like you can take care of yourself, but if you need some heavyweight backup . . .” Ruben was a former UFC contender who’d taken Prince Santana the distance in the Octagon, and Kitty was grateful—now more than ever—to have him listed in her contacts.
She hopped off her board, pulled her phone from the back pocket of her jeans. The Mustang slowed to a crawl, then picked up speed and turned north on Micheltorena. The angry sound of its muffler faded into the Silver Lake ambience. It would return, though. Kitty was sure of it.
No answer from Ruben. Voice mail.
“Shit.”
Fusion 44—Sly Boy’s jazz club—was a few blocks north of the lake in Echo Park. Kitty could be there in fifteen minutes. Sly Boy preferred his runners didn’t drop by unannounced (he didn’t do any business at the club; it was strictly for jazz) but that was where she’d likely find Ruben. And if not, Sly Boy would know how to handle the Viking.
Kitty turned her board around and rolled down Sunset. She slowed where the pedestrian traffic was heavier, weaving between groups of people, sometimes hopping the curb and skating the bike lane. Her heart jumped. Small tears flashed from the corners of her eyes. Cool under pressure had always been one of her superpowers—the Coolest Kitty in the City, her girls back in Louisville always said—but this had set her on edge.
The Mustang passed her, circled, then passed her again.
“Motherfucker,” she hissed. “What is your problem?”
Ten minutes of this, then she committed to the bike lane, blazing through every intersection. Traffic stopped for her—abruptly. She was nearly hit by a city bus at one point. It swerved across the bike lane to make its stop and she leaned a hard left, seeing nothing but the full-moon shine of its headlights. She ollied onto the sidewalk, caromed off a parking meter, and wiped out. Kitty knew how to fall, though, and how to get back up. She did so now, brushing grit from her grazed elbow, then retrieved her skateboard and ran the rest of the way.
El Picador Avenue, seventy yards of blacktop edged with magnolia trees and trash, home to office and apartment buildings, a yoga studio called Nirvana Flow, and Fusion 44. Its peacock-blue awning reached over the sidewalk like a sheltering wing. Frankie, the bouncer, stood outside, impressive in stature, disinterested in demeanor. He barely looked at Kitty as she swept inside.
The bar area was illuminated by soft yellow globes, but everywhere else was dipped in mood lighting. There were maybe twenty patrons sitting at tables in front of the stage, where a trio dressed in white suits played crime jazz. A half dozen more bodies propped up the bar. Kitty recognized Cal Schifrin, one of Sly Boy’s new hires. He took care of the books, but he could also take care of himself.
“Should you be here, Kitty?” he asked. “I didn’t see your name on the list.”
“Looking for Ruben.” Kitty breathed heavily and wiped sweat from beneath her eyes. “I got some creep following me. I didn’t want to lead him to my apartment.”
“Ruben’s with the boss. He’ll be down soon.”
“I’ll wait.” And to the bartender: “Water, please. Lots of ice.”
She was halfway through her drink when the Viking entered the club. He stood out, even in the gloom, a tall guy—six-two, easily—wrapped in lean muscle, an ornate tattoo on the left side of his neck. More dark ink decorated his forearms. He noticed Kitty and smiled, twisting the prongs of his beard.
“Shit,” Kitty said. “That’s him.”
“That fucking guy?”
The Viking’s driver stood just behind and to the left of him. He was thick-bodied and looked dangerous, as if missing a critical element that made him all the way human. An animal—a jackal, maybe—that would eat his own young to stay alive.
Cal put his drink down and got to his feet. “I’ll take care of this prick,” he said, striding past Kitty with his chest puffed out. Cal had once told Kitty that he used to train SWAT team members in close-quarters combat.
He and the Viking met at the end of the bar. Kitty might have heard their brief conversation, had the band been between numbers. Not that she needed to hear anything. Cal gestured toward the door. You’re not welcome here. Kindly leave. The Viking twisted his beard and nodded toward Kitty. Not going anywhere. I want to talk to her. Cal said something else, puffing his chest out a little more. He prodded the Viking with his finger, which ended all dialogue.
The driver stepped forward and drove his fist into Cal’s face. It was a quick attack, and devastating. Cal’s nose broke open with a staccato pop. He wobbled on his heels and raised one hand, perhaps in some feeble attempt at defense, or to cry uncle. Whatever it was, it didn’t work. The driver grabbed him by the hair and introduced his face to the wall. Not once, but three times. The impacts were solid enough to halt the band. A flower of Cal’s blood bloomed on the rustic brickwork. One of his teeth hit the barroom floor and skated all the way to where Kitty was standing.
“Ain’t that some unhappy shit,” the pianist grumbled into his microphone.
The driver let go of Cal, who dropped into a loose heap, his days of eating solid food behind him, much like his days of training SWAT team members in close-quarters combat. His face was a broken mess.
The Viking examined his fingernails—indifferent, cool—and tipped Kitty a wink. At that point, Sly Boy and Ruben appeared, bursting in from the back of the club where Sly Boy kept an office. Kitty wanted to vault the bar and hide. Shit was about to go down, and it wouldn’t just be unhappy. There would be guns. There would be bodies.
Or so she thought.
Instead, Sly Boy adopted a cautious posture, his eyes peeled to full circles. “What the fuck, Johan?” he said, and uttered a nervous laugh. Even Ruben appeared reluctant to venture too far forward. He looked like a scared two-hundred-and-sixty-pound boy.
“Kris,” Johan said calmly. “It’s been a while. You look good.”
“Yeah, it’s been . . .” He shook his head, getting back on track. “What the fuck, man?”
Johan—the Viking—gave his beard another twist, then pointed at Kitty. “Her.” He offered his disarming smile. “I want just a moment with her.”
All eyes on Kitty. She stood in the yellow light, her legs trembling. “I didn’t do shit.” She looked from Sly Boy to Johan, then back to Sly Boy. “I’ve never seen this guy before. He just started following me.”
“Scouting,” Johan corrected her. “This is Los Angeles, after all, where fortune favors the ruthless.”
An uncharacteristic hush descended on the club, broken only by creaking chairs and Cal’s tuneless wheezing. Some of the patrons had vacated, but most were old jazz guys. They’d seen this—and worse—before. They looked put out, if anything, that their evening’s entertainment had been interrupted.
