True Fiction (Ian Ludlow Thrillers #1)(52)
“And the rest in doubloons,” Margo added as she drove up to the house.
“I also come back here now and then for crucial supplies.”
“Like what?” Ian asked.
“Wanda,” Ronnie said. “LA is second only to Tokyo as the hotbed of the sex doll industry. Some dealers will even let preferred customers like me take the dolls out for a test drive. I can have one delivered in an hour.”
“That’s disgusting,” Margo said.
But for Ian Ludlow, it was inspirational. Until that moment, Ian didn’t have a plan. Now he did. The plot began to fall into place, fitting together like LEGO blocks. He didn’t have the details yet, but he felt a familiar, reassuring rush of creative excitement. There was a book here and that meant there was a chance at salvation for him, Margo, and Ronnie.
They all got out of the car. Ronnie went to the door, unlocked it, and stepped inside, immediately setting off the alarm. He typed a code into the keypad by the door and deactivated the security system.
“Come on in,” he said. “There are six bedrooms, six baths, two kitchens, a screening room, a wine cellar, and a six-car garage.”
The grand entry was the center of the house. It was two stories high, encircled by the open second floor, and illuminated by sunshine streaming in from a skylight. All the other wings of the house branched off from the hall like spokes on a wheel. The interior was professionally decorated in a California hacienda style that was about as warm, personal, and inviting as a model home.
“The Carrara marble on the floor, and throughout the house, is from the same Tuscan quarry as the slab that Michelangelo used to carve the statue of David, who has the same body as me, except I have a much bigger schlong,” Ronnie said. “Michelangelo said the statues were already in the rock—he just had to bring them out. So everywhere you go in this house you’ll find the potential for greatness, and a big marble cock, all around you.”
“That’s a lot of money to pay for constant reassurance,” Margo said.
“It’s cheaper than seeing a shrink,” Ronnie said.
“You should have seen the shrink instead.” She checked her watch and turned to Ian. “Okay, time’s up. Do you have a plan or not?”
Ian smiled. “I do.”
And then he told her what it was.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The assassin Doric Thane arrived in Los Angeles tanned and thoroughly rested after his seven-day vacation in Hawaii. He’d practically had the entire island of Oahu to himself after he’d crashed the plane into Waikiki. The traumatized tourists couldn’t wait to get off the island and the traumatized locals stayed indoors. He’d checked out of the Diamond Head hotel while Waikiki was still in flames and moved to a condo in sleepy Kailua, on the east end of the island, a mountain range between him and the devastation and chaos that he’d wrought. He spent his days swimming in the warm water, jogging on deserted beaches, and eating in empty restaurants. It was idyllic.
After arriving at LAX, he took a shuttle to the long-term parking lot, found his car, and drove to the Universal City Oakwood, a complex of furnished temporary-stay apartments on Barham Boulevard. The Oakwood was popular with businessmen, airline pilots and stewardesses, recently divorced fathers, and actors staying in LA for auditions, episodic guest shots, or movie shoots. Visiting assassins liked it, too.
The best part of staying there was the sex. Unless you had leprosy, it was almost impossible not to get laid. And even then, your chances were still pretty good.
The assassin hadn’t been called into the office or given an assignment so he had time on his hands. Thane entered his apartment, changed into his Speedo, and went down to the pool, where there were several women sunbathing in bikinis for him to choose from. He picked a twentysomething who seemed to be posing for a nonexistent camera and was very proud of her new boobs. She had a right to be.
Thane stretched out on the chaise lounge next to hers, asked if he could steal some of her suntan lotion since he’d forgotten his and within two minutes he’d learned she was a stage actress from New York doing a guest shot on a cop show.
“I play an international hit woman,” she said with a sly smile. “My body is a lethal weapon.”
“Wow,” Thane said. “Should I be scared?”
“Absolutely. When I play a part, I get under the character’s skin. In the script, it says that she’s a sociopath, that killing is the only thing that excites her, that she actually feels. That’s bullshit. The writers have no clue who she is,” the actress said, then leaned in close, as if sharing a dark secret. “Do you want to know what’s really going on in an assassin’s mind?”
“Beyond the preparation for the kill, and the escape afterward, they aren’t thinking about anything at all,” Thane said. “Taking a stranger’s life is meaningless to them. It’s a task to be performed, like a gardener pulling weeds.”
She dismissed his remark with a wave of her hand, like she was swatting away a fly buzzing around her head. “That’s completely wrong. Each time they kill someone, they’re symbolically killing their parents, over and over, for the love they were denied. They’re mourning their lost childhoods.”
It was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard. He had a great relationship with his parents. They loved him unconditionally, though he wasn’t tempted to test that belief by telling them that he’d hacked into an airplane and crashed it into Waikiki.