Acknowledgments
Like any writer Id like to claim complete credit for this book. But I have only borrowed these wonderful characters, not only from their originator, Steve Franks, but from the actors who have breathed life into them over the last five years: James Roday, Dul Hill, Timothy Omundson, Maggie Lawson, Corbin Bernson and Kirsten Nelson.
And Id like to give a special thanks to my editor, Sandy Harding, for her generosity, her patience, and for the fact that every single suggestion shes ever made has made these books better.
About the Author
William Rabkin is a two-time Edgar-nominated television writer and producer. He has written for numerous mystery shows, including Psych and Monk, and has served as showrunner on Diagnosis Murder and Martial Law.
Chapter One
As a store it wasnt much. Fifteen feet deep, maybe half that wide, a long counter running down the middle. Behind the counter the wall was covered with liquor bottles, and the liquor bottles were covered with dust. The only ones that werent encased in grime were the strong, vile brews favored by those with deep thirsts but shallow pockets. The cheap corn whiskeys, the Bulgarian fortified wines, and the malt beverages made from grain alcohol sweetened with Kool-Aid twinkled brightly from a shelf the man behind the counter could reach without having to turn his back on the customer.
Not that he looked like he had any intention of turning his back on his customer. He stared across the counter at Gus, his ancient face crumpled into a permanent squint, one hand holding on to the tarnished register, either to keep it from walking out the door or to keep his knees from buckling, and the other just out of sight under the counter, undoubtedly fingering the shotgun hidden down there.
You want something? The owners voice was as cragged as his face.
This was the moment Gus had been dreading. The clues hed been following had brought him here as surely as the Yellow Brick Road took Dorothy to Oz. But like that lemon-colored highway, this path held dangers at every turn. And so far not one of them had been as benign as the Scarecrow or the Lion. The only person hed met who acted at all welcoming was a young woman in hot pants and a halter top, whod offered to party with Gus in an adjacent alley for a mere forty dollars. Gus wouldnt have been tempted to accept her offer even if he hadnt seen the shadowy figure lurking just inside the alleys mouth.
That danger recognized easily, he moved on as quickly as he could, stopping only to pick up a brick and smash the window of a Porsche Cayenne that someone had left at the curb. A note on the drivers seat gave the address of this liquor store, and he ran here as fast as he could.
But now that he faced the withered shopkeeper across the grimy countertop, he wasnt sure what he should do next. His first instinct was, as always, to be as friendly as possible and simply ask for help. But hed already tried that once in the emergency room. It made him sick to think of what had happened next.
Its a store, not a damn museum, the owner croaked, the sagging skin of his left arm twitching as his hand clutched the shotgun. You want to buy something or you want to get out.
Gus scanned the shelves of bottles, trying to make out a label underneath the grime. Nothing looked right to him. He had to bring something back to Morton; that was the only way he could prove he was trustworthy. At least that was how the dead guy who used to own that Cayenne was supposed to prove his worth. Since Morton had never seen either of them, all Gus had to do to win a place in the Organization was show up with the proper token.
It occurred to Gus that he should probably say something. The old guy might have been expecting Cayenne and would know to turn over the right item to him. If only there had been something on the note besides this address.
Maybe its not what was on the note, Gus thought. Maybe its the note itself. That didnt seem likely. It was just a scrap off a yellow legal pad, nothing on it but this address scrawled diagonally across one side. The back was blank. But as soon as the thought crossed his mind Gus was certain he needed to show the note to the shopkeeper.
You want to buy something or you want to get out, the old man croaked again, and this time Gus was sure he could see dust rising out of his mouth.
Gus dug in the pockets of his silk suit and pulled out the scrap of paper. He unfolded it carefully, then slid it across the counter to the proprietor.
The old man didnt even glance down at the paper. He stared at Gus. You want to buy something or you want to get out, he said.
Ill buy something, Gus said, desperately trying to figure out what it was he needed. He glanced away from the shelves of bottles and studied the other side of the store. There was a rack of tattered magazines, their covers featuring naked women or motorcycles or naked women on motorcycles. A locked case held cans of what Gus could only assume was chewing tobacco, although it had never occurred to him that there could be so many brands of something no one hed met had ever used. Against the wall were bare shelves littered with a few items that might once have been intended to be eatenpackaged snack cakes, their pink marshmallow and coconut shells turning brown and shriveling with age to reveal the permanently moist chocolate crumb underneath; cardboard tubes reportedly filled with chips made from at least thirty-two percent real potato; a cloudy plastic bucket containing soggy sticks of jerked something. There was nothing here that Morton could possibly have wanted to allow into his immaculate penthouse, even as an identification marker.
Gus turned back to the owner, who was still staring directly at him. You ready to buy something?
Sure, Gus said. Let me have ... Desperately he scanned the shelves behind the old man. There wasnt a hint of what he was supposed to purchase, just row after row of filthy bottles.
Then he saw something. A glint of light. It came from one of the upper shelves. Gus peered up and saw that there was one bottle that wasnt dirty at all. It looked like it had just been placed there. Ill have that bottle of Glen Graggenlogan, he said, hoping he was reading the label correctly from this distance.
The old man stared at him for a moment, then gave Gus an almost imperceptible wink. Think you can handle it, junior? he said.
Was this some kind of test, or was the old man really trying to warn him away for his own good? Gus couldnt tell. Is there something I should know?
The shopkeeper didnt answer, just kept staring. There wasnt going to be any help coming from him. Just give me the bottle, Gus said.
The old man pulled his hand out from under the counter and turned slowly to a rickety library ladder attached at the top to a railing that ran parallel to the ceiling. Sliding it slowly into position, he managed to lift one leg up to the bottom rung, where he rested as if waiting for the strength to continue.
Gus checked his watch, then checked it again. Time was flying past. Morton wasnt going to wait forever.
