The Long Way Down (Daniel Faust #1)(23)

“The Terminator,” Corman grunted.

“The Terminator.” Bentley nodded. “Have you seen it, Daniel? You might find it instructional.”

? ? ?

I had hoped to come home with answers. Instead I brought back a fifth of Bacardi, a two-liter bottle of Coke, and a microwave pizza from the convenience store down the block. I knew I’d been having too many nights like this in a row since Roxy left, but it was a comfortable rut.

I booted up my laptop and got things ready. Time to call Artie. I kept a box of burners in my closet, cheap Nokia flip-phones with a few hours of prepaid time for jobs like this one.

“Mr. Kaufman?” I said when he picked up, trying to sound harried and breathless. “I’m so sorry to bother you this late, I’m sure you’re busy. This is Peter, Peter Greyson from this morning? Paolo’s friend?”

“Hey, Pete!” he boomed. “How the hell are ya? Sorry we had to cut things short, bro.”

“Totally understand, you’re a busy man. I didn’t leave my wallet over there, did I? I dropped it somewhere, and I’ve been going nuts trying to find it all afternoon.”

“As a matter of fact, you did. I found it in the sofa cushions just like, five minutes ago. I was about to call you and let you know.”

I exhaled with mock relief. “Oh, man, thank you, you’re a lifesaver.”

“So, Pete,” he said slowly, building himself up to it, “you said you’re a collector. Paolo said you might be able to get, you know, some really rare videos?”

“I have one that you might like. Listen, normally I’d share it for free since you’re my favorite director, but I’m in a little jam here—”

“Say no more, bro. We’re both men of the world. It’s all ups and downs, am I right? So how do you feel about a nice fat stack of cash in your hand? I can make that happen, if you’ve really got what I’m looking for.”

“Oh, I’ve got what you’re looking for.”

“Yeah?” he breathed. I felt like a phonesex operator, getting him all hot and bothered. Grimacing, I tapped my keyboard.

“I’m not saying anything on a phone line, you know, but, well, listen to this.”

Before calling Artie, I had logged on to Netflix and took a quick spin through the horror section. I’d queued up a one-star-rated film described as “raw, brutal torture porn” and paused it on a scene where a masked killer with a drill was terrorizing a naked co-ed.

I held my phone up to the cheap computer speakers and hit play, treating Artie to six seconds of flesh-tearing shrieks. The special effects were terrible, but I bet the screams sounded pretty believable on his end of the line.

“Just saying,” I murmured into the phone, hitting pause.

“Holy shit, bro.”

“It’s three hours long. Her throat gives out about two hours in, though.”

“Yeah,” he breathed, “yeah, I think we can do business. Hey, my usual poker night is tomorrow. Why don’t you come on by, sit in for a few hands, chill with us, and then we can have a private viewing?”

“Wow, I haven’t played poker in years,” I said, “but I guess I can give it a shot. You guys play for real money?”

“Five-hundred-dollar buy-in. You could make some real money, you play your cards right.”

“I don’t know. I really need every dollar I can scrape together right now. Five hundred’s just about everything I have left.”

“Come on,” Artie said, “trust me, these guys I play with are chumps. You’ll probably steamroller them. Every dollar counts, right? And even if you lose, I’m gonna pay you a lot more than that for the video. You walk out with cash in your pocket, no matter how it goes down.”

I counted silently to five, letting the tension simmer. “Oh, all right, I’m in. What the hell, right? Could be fun.”

I promised to be there at seven sharp and hung up the phone. The poker invitation stank like a rotten fish. He wanted the video that badly, practically drooling into the phone, but we couldn’t meet to trade it before the game started? Or tonight, even? My gut said Artie didn’t intend to pay me a dime. He believed I was a desperate man in dire straits. Desperate and reckless enough, maybe, to be pushed into putting the video on the table when I’d lost everything else.

The lion’s den awaited. Artie Kaufman, a sadistic killer expecting a prize that I didn’t have. Carl Holt, a corrupt cop with everything to lose. Caitlin, who had literally clawed her way out of the pits of hell. Then there was Nicky Agnelli’s connection to the whole mess, a big fat question mark dangling from the barrel of a gun.

I only had one chance to yank the rug out from under Artie. If we made it to the end of the night and he figured out my “movie” was nothing but a blank DVD, no way was I getting out of his house alive. I didn’t like my odds. Still, I had two good reasons not to drop the job and walk away: Jud and Stacy Pankow. They both needed my help to move on, in their own ways. I’d live, if I walked away, but I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.





Twelve



I woke with the dawn and guzzled a bottle of water to chase away my hangover. Then I stumbled into the shower, letting the warm spray blanket me while I rested my forehead against the cool tile wall. Hazy dreams slipped between my fingers, dancing at the edges of my mind. I thought I had dreamed about Caitlin. Imagined her standing there, in the darkness of my bedroom, watching me sleep.