A Better Goodbye by John Schulian Read Free Book Online Page A

African-American criminal sitting in his black 5 Series BMW, a ride just right for looking like it belonged in the neighborhood. If any of the neighbors peeked out their windows and saw his car before going nighty-night, they’d most likely assume he was visiting somebody on the block. The fact that he was black wouldn’t upset them as long as he wasn’t coming through a window and pinning them to the wall with a spear.
    DuPree was wiggling his toes comfortably in a pair of Bruno Magli cordovan loafers, the O.J. touch in his wardrobe, when his man came around the curve off Bronson and headed up the hill, driving too fast in his Acura MDX for such a narrow street. It didn’t look like he noticed DuPree, which was what DuPree was counting on. Just keep everything normal, let the man do his home deliveries, like the one he’d be making to an actor in another minute or two.
    The actor had struck it rich in the early nineties as a lovable goof in a sitcom that made being stupid look like a good thing. He had celebrated his good fortune ever since by shooting as much smack as he could without killing himself. The times he had tiptoed to the edge of the abyss, his standup girlfriend had been around to dial 911. Barely half his age and she was the adult in the equation, until she wound up loving heroin even more than he did. It figured he wouldn’t be in any condition to call for help when she OD’ed. Now he sat up in a three-million-dollar house with a view of the Hollywood sign and a rat problem, grieving and staying as fucked up as he could, coming down just long enough to sleepwalk through another TV or movie gig that would finance his drug habit.
    DuPree wondered if the hopeless motherfucker even remembered his dealer’s name. He should have, seeing as how the dealer made deliveries three nights a week, always right around this time. But the important thing was, DuPree remembered.
    He’d seen Teddy George for the first time six or eight months ago playing bass for Esther May at the House of Blues. Other than having a big head of rock-and-roll hair and pants so tight he must have been castrated to squeeze into them, George was nothing special musically, no Flea or Stanley Clarke. But DuPree started getting interested when one of the guys in his party said Esther had been a stone junkie back in the 50s, when she was taking R & B mainstream with a song called “Midnight Moan.” Then someone else, a Latina with glitter on as much of her titties as DuPree could see, said if Esther was still using, she probably got it from Teddy George.
    Turned out he dealt an upscale high to writers and directors in the Hollywood Hills, producers and lawyers in Beverly Hills, and agents, record executives, and moguls of every description in Bel Air, Brentwood, and the Palisades. The only time he didn’t make his appointed rounds was when he was on the road; then his kid brother hauled the tar heroin, rock cocaine, weed, crystal meth, Ecstasy, Vicodin, and OxyContin. But with Esther May looking like she would spend her golden years nodding off, George had more and more time to devote to his nightly magical mystery tour.
    DuPree had spent the past month figuring out the man’s stops and which night was the busiest. He had time on his hands after the bank robbery in Porter Ranch, way the hell out there in the Valley. There might be even more downtime if he stayed away from the armored car job that was getting talked about. Armored cars seemed like too much trouble—more partners, more chance of gunfire and bloodshed, and the last thing he wanted was a piece of a shootout like that B of A shitstorm, two crazy motherfuckers with full body armor and insane firepower, and they still got their asses blown away. When it came to pain, DuPree was about giving, not receiving.
    So he had gone solo, liking the feeling as he followed Teddy George partway one night, then partway another, piecing things together