Dying For LA by Ian Jones (top fiction books of all time .txt) 📕

what I believe is right, I will be spreading some misinformation because if there is an inside man, or even men, it will right here in this building. I’ll meet up with you there in a couple of hours. John, you look like shit. Get some sleep,’ Keane told them, and disappeared back into the building.

They looked at each other and climbed into Warner’s car, a dark blue Buick. They went to the Montage first so John could check out and get his stuff. Warner drove deftly, no problem with the traffic, constant lefts and rights and easily crossing the city toward Beverley Hills. John was impressed.

‘So you live here then?’ he asked.

To his surprise Warner shook his head.

‘No. I’m based in San Diego now, Detroit originally. I’m the same as Judy, the 1-Too connection set off alarm bells right across the network and next thing I know I’m on the next plane. But I was here a long time right through to 2013.’

‘You did the same job here?’ Judy asked.

‘No, I was just your box standard agent back then. I wanted to get up the ladder, but there weren’t many opportunities, CIA in LA was low-key after 9–11. But we had a good life. My wife was a teacher, she became a drugs councillor, working with the kids, dealing with the young ones in the gangs. She put her heart in it, seriously, and then one day she gets shot in Inglewood.’

‘Shit,’ said John. ‘Is she OK?’

‘She survived. It was a close call, she’s doing good now. But the agency took pity on me, and offered me a post down in San Diego, dealing with organised crime coming over the border mostly. It was a promotion, and we really had to get out of here so I took it. 1-Too kinda fell in my lap, nobody knew nothing about it. I picked it up from New York because originally they believed it was Mexican, and after that it kinda stayed with me.’

‘You married John?’ Judy asked.

‘No. It was close. I got a daughter, lives in New York actually.’

‘Two girls for me,’ Judy said proudly. ‘Oldest is twenty-four with a daughter of her own. Scary.’

‘I got two boys,’ Warner told them. ‘Ten and eight.’

‘Granny Judy,’ John smiled.

‘OK, OK,’ Judy replied smiling back.

‘Granny got a gun,’ Warner said, and they all laughed.

The hotel was called Ocean Vista, and was a simple concrete three-storey block painted white, with all the rooms opening off of front landings which ran straight across on all the levels. It was barely a level up from the cheapest motel, but to John, it was perfect. There couldn’t be anywhere more anonymous in the world, let alone LA. They had three rooms side by side on the top floor. John and Warner took the rooms at either side with Judy in the middle.

John dropped his bag on the bed then went and stood outside his door, hands on the railing. Right in front of the building was a tiny square pool with a few plastic chairs around it and a big ‘Residents Only’ sign. There was nobody there. On the other side was a car park, and after that a bar with a Chinese restaurant next door. The main street was a four lane that ran along at right angles to the hotel on John’s left, with a fair amount of traffic flowing. There was a big petrol station immediately opposite, and there were several shops, bars and restaurants along from that. Between the buildings he could see the sea, sparkling in the February sunshine and far away the pier was just visible.

He walked back inside, stripped off, had a shower and cleaned his teeth, then dressed and laid down on the bed. In a few minutes he was asleep.

***

Breakfast, in fact any meal time in the apartment, was depressing. There was a small kitchen, but nobody ever cooked anything. Normally at mealtimes Voorhees would pass over twenty or maybe even thirty bucks and depending on the time of day one of the men would go to McDonalds or KFC. If they were really fortunate, possibly Taco Bell or even Denny’s, occasionally Chinese. That morning was slow to start. Rico and Sal had a more comfortable night, as it was now only the pair of them sharing the room, it had been five before that, all in sleeping bags on the floor. Voorhees had a proper bed in the other bedroom, which had the TV in it.

Sal had gone to McDonalds in the end, and paid for it with his own dollars as Voorhees hadn’t got out of bed. He sat with Rico in the tiny kitchen as they ate.

Rico checked his watch.

‘It’s late. Reckon we should wake him?’

Sal prodded the brown paper bag on the table.

‘Maybe. I got him breakfast, it will be cold probably. But I ain’t fucking going near him.’

Rico rubbed his eyes. He wouldn’t do it either. He sighed deeply and looked around. There was not much to see in the room, beer cans and crap on every work surface, a broken coffeemaker, a bin overflowing with takeaway wrappers. He wanted a shower more than anything but it made a lot of noise and Voorhees complained bitterly if anyone used it when he was in bed. He drank the last of his coffee and looked closely at Sal over the brim of the paper cup.

‘This is all shit, right?’ he spoke very quietly.

Immediately Sal looked around him, but Voorhees was nowhere, and he was not a man who could easily sneak up on someone in this tiny apartment.

‘Well, it ain’t what I was expecting,’; he replied, equally quietly.

‘Right. I was told a team of six, with backup. Professional. But there’s only ever been five, and no backup. And we don’t never know what we are supposed to be doing. Four months we’ve been here. Four months in this shithole, and then out the blue we get told to go get a package? And that