THE CHANGE - CHAPTER NINETEEN

PART SIX - CHARLIE'S OLDEST FORGOTTEN FRIEND / LIVE FROM THE PARASITE

PART SIX

CHARLIE’S OLDEST FORGOTTEN FRIEND

FRIDAY, DECEMBER 18TH

LOS ANGELES, CA

NINETEEN

The room was small and squat and squalid. The walls were once white, but had yellowed with sin. There was a dresser with drawers, but I wouldn’t put clothes in it. There was a crappy TV, but I didn’t need the headache.

I set my bags down on the end of the bed. Took off my coat. Set my gun down beside it. Cracked my first beer open, and tore into the shrimp and pork fried rice. Nothing like good food to make the shadows recede for a second.

Next up was a quick inspection. Bed was nasty below, but the linens looked alright. Towels in the bathroom seemed clean. No mold in the shower. No shit in the toilet. No junkie with a knife hiding out in the closet. Faucets worked. Drains worked. All the locks on the doors and windows worked. Curtains were thick enough to shut out the world.

Put it all together, that was good enough for me.

Once that was done, I papered the walls with screen grabs of Liam’s compound: the back gate, the yurts, the wall between the haves and have-nots. It was my own private War Room, to peruse at my leisure. Which I pointedly did, as I moved to Beer Two.

Then I hung a couple posters of Thailand, just to remind me where this ended. But did I still wanna go there? Suddenly, I wasn’t sure.

I mean, a tropical island called Phuket sure sounded like fun. Was perhaps the perfect punchline to my life’s long stupid joke. But what made me think I could live there, unnoticed? How long did I think I could get away with that?

For that matter, what made me think I could make it out of the country, much less get out of Liam’s place alive, what with jacked-up Powder Keg Patti and her eagle-eyed accomplice in rose-colored moron suppression? There were a million ways for this shit to squirt sideways, even given Mort’s intel. And trusting Mort for a second was a terrible idea, even at the best of times.

It was at this point that I took my first serious swig of whiskey, polished off Beer Two and went to work on Beer Three. Overthinking this shit wouldn’t help. And there was no percentage in crippling self-doubt.

So I opened the suitcase with the death mask in it – saving that party trick for tomorrow – and went straight to the battered deck of cards I always carried. Laid the booze out beside me. Sat myself down on the nasty carpet, so cross-legged I was almost in lotus position.

Then I shuffled, settling in for the duration.