Part II
"Crap!" Spike exclaimed, throwing his controller at the screen and knocking the game console off the top of the television.
"Perfect," Spike groaned, rising from the couch and walking over to the television. He lifted the console, glanced at the case, and finding no damage, he returned it to the top of the set.
"I'm back," Clem announced, walking through the apartment doorway.
"Any luck?" Spike asked as he hit the START button on the controller.
"Nothing so far," Clem replied, walking to the couch and flopping down next to Spike.
"No one's heard about Greenway?" Spike asked.
"Nobody I've talked to," Clem answered. "I've hit most of my contacts who are connected. Most of them have heard of Greenway. I told them I'd worked for him, and that he owes me money for a job, but they all say he's been gone for weeks. If anybody knows what dimension he's in, they're not talking."
"Just keep at it, mate," Spike said, leaning to his left as he executed a hard onscreen spin kick. "It's only been three days, and we're on the clock. Speaking of which, the envelope on the table is yours."
Clem looked at the end table, picked up a manila envelope, and opened it. He tilted the envelope, and a stack of bills slid down into his hand.
"They only pay out three days at a time," Spike continued. "But, still, better than nothing."
"I suppose," Clem said.
"There's beer in the fridge," Spike offered.
"I'm okay," Clem replied.
"Jump in if you like," Spike said, glancing at the second controller resting on the armrest. "I'm only on level three, if you want to go two-player."
"No thanks," Clem said. "Those buttons are always too small for my fingers. Besides, I've only got an hour before I have to get to the bar. They've got a band tonight, so they're expecting a good crowd."
"Sounds like a piss-poor way to make a living.," Spike said, quickly tapping the jump button on the controller. "Hey, if we find this Greenway, I might be able to get you a regular gig."
"Um, I don't know, Spike."
"Not much for the field work, eh?" Spike said. "That's alright. Maybe something a little more tame. The third floor's always looking for file clerks."
"At Wolfram and Hart, you mean?" Clem asked.
"Yep."
"Uh, Spike, I've heard things about that place."
"They're under new management. Strictly in the do-gooder business now."
"Maybe," Clem sighed. "It's just...."
"What?"
Clem thumbed the money between his fingers, took a deep breath, then said:
"It's just this town. Los Angeles. It's...weird."
"Sunnydale wasn't exactly Mayberry," Spike snorted. "It was on a Hellmouth, and we all made out alright."
"That's what I mean," Clem said. "Back in Sunnydale, it was different. I mean, sure, you'd have the demons who'd come along and try to do all sorts of nasty stuff. You know, like the Master, Angelus, that Adam guy...."
Clem paused as he saw Spike glaring at him. Spike raised an eyebrow.
"Oh, and of course, you, Spike!" Clem quickly added.
"Bloody right," Spike grunted.
"But that's the thing," Clem continued. "Back there, you knew where you stood. The humans did their thing, demons got by as best they could, and every so often a big bad guy would come into town and try to destroy the world."
"Hardly idyllic."
"But at least you knew the score. Here, everybody's got an angle. Heck, usually it's ten angles, in every direction. Like, this guy tonight? His name's Fro'Grath. He's a Cranther demon. He can lift a garbage truck over his head. He's got this whole racket where his minions steal babies from their cribs, and he sells them to other demons to eat."
"Sounds like a right bastard."
"He is," Clem said. "But you know what he does with the money he makes? He buys laundromats."
"How does that fit in?"
"That's the thing," Clem said. "The laundromats don't fit into anything. Everything fits into them. He owns six laundromats, and by the end of the year he wants to own six more. He's not trying to conquer the world; he's trying to conquer the fold and starch market. And it's not just him. His soap supplier is a human, and he gives all of his profits to a Slynar cult. The vampire he hired for muscle wears a t-shirt that says 'What I Really Want to Do is Direct.' One guy wanted me to do some bodyguard work for a TV actress. She got her first sitcom after she sacrificed her kid sister to a thunder god. I didn't get the job, because he found out that I eat cats, and she's big into the 'anti-fur' thing. It's like the whole town is all about money and blood and fame, and there's nothing you can do that makes sense one way or another."
"That's what beer's for, mate," Spike said. "Pop one, let it go for awhile."
"Maybe later," Clem muttered. "I dunno. At least back in Sunnydale, if you weren't trying to save the world, and you weren't trying to destroy it, you could just get by. That's all I ever wanted. I guess I just thought that...."
Clem paused as a chirp sounded from his shirt pocket.
"Darn," Clem said, pulling out his beeper and checking the display. "It's Bobby. He's the manager over at the bar. He beeps me if he needs me to show up early. One of the other bouncers must have called in."
"Not a problem," Spike said. "The sun's down. I'll take the night shift. Swing by in the morning and we'll see where we stand."
"Gotcha," Clem said, turning toward the door. "Beep me if anything comes up."
Spike glanced up at the door as it slammed shut, then rose from the couch and walked over to the refrigerator. He opened the fridge door, grabbed a bottle of beer, and kicked the door shut as he returned to the couch. He sat down and twisted the cap off the bottle, gazing at the TV screen.
He took a swig of beer, then shook his head as he thought of Clem. Of all the places in the world, Clem was homesick for Sunnydale. For a century the town had drawn the worst evil imaginable, until the earth had swallowed it whole, like a bitter pill.
Spike had cursed Sunnydale as bad luck. And yet, he had always returned. Something had always brought him there, and kept him there. A cure, a spell, a ring, revenge, safety, a girl. He found the cure, and from there....
'Never did learn to quit ahead of the game,' Spike thought, picking at the beer bottle label with his thumb nail.
He had stayed until the end. He had been the end. So much could have ended there. And now, with the whole world open before him, he found himself in Los Angeles. Yet again, he had found himself trapped, first by a spell, then by a destiny that was never his. The spell was lifted, the destiny a fraud, nothing stood between him and La Dolce Vita. Nothing, except a rundown apartment, a tenuous partnership with a shady law firm, the moderately amusing distraction of deflating Angel's hubris.
Spike sighed, then returned his attention to the game. The dark underbelly of the Los Angeles demon underground would wait until after Spike had achieved the Super Belly Flop power.
Or at least Spike had assumed they would wait, until the front door crashed in and three men stormed into the room.
Spike stood, slowly and deliberately.
"Hope we're not interrupting," one of the men said sarcastically.
"As a matter of fact," Spike said, sizing up the intruders, "I was in the middle of something."
"Well, now you're at the end of something," the man said, drawing a large revolver and firing a shot into Spike's chest.
Spike flew backward, the large caliber bullet slamming into his flesh. He found himself sprawled on the kitchen floor, too stunned by pain and shock to react. His mind raced as he lay on the tile, imagining the various ways he would tear his attackers apart, until he heard:
"Check him. Mr. Greenway wants a call tonight."
Spike lay still. His attackers thought him human.
"You hit him square, Charley, " another voice said, as Spike felt a pair of fingers grab his wrist. "And he's got no pulse. He's dead."
'Got that right,' Spike thought, as he fought against the pain to keep from moving, and fought against his anger to keep from ripping a hole in the man's trachea.
"Load him up," Spike heard Charley order. "His keys are on the coffee table. We'll take care of him and the car. Two birds, one stone."
"I still say we shoulda worked him over first," a third voice said. "Found out what he wants with the boss."
"It doesn't matter," the Charley replied. "Greenway's flight leaves the day after tomorrow. After that, he's in the clear. Freddy, help Mick with the body."
"How do we know he ain't a demon?" Mick asked. "Maybe we should chop his head off."
Spike forced himself to remain limp as he felt Mick's hands reach under his arms.
"Bullets work good on most demons," Charley answered. "Besides, we ain't got time to do every ritual that'll kill the ones that don't."
'Lazy wankers,' Spike thought, as he felt Freddy lift his legs.
"I got the keys," Charley said. "Follow me."
Spike felt the two men shift his weight and carry him out of the apartment. They paused briefly, then Spike heard Charley say:
"Coast's clear. Let's move."
As Mick and Freddy carried him, Spike heard the background din of the Los Angeles night. He then heard the chirp of the Audi's keyless entry button, and his body was thrown down into what Spike surmised was the trunk of the car. The pain of the bullet wound exploded in Spike's chest, but he remained motionless.
"Meet at the diner after you're done," Spike heard Charley say. "We'll take care of the wrinkly guy when he gets off work. Then we'll head back to Fresno."
"Gotcha," Mick said, slamming down the trunk lid. "I still say we should chop his head off."
"Then do it," Charley responded. "Just wait 'til you're somewhere safe. I ain't hangin' out after a gunshot any longer than I have to."
"Right," Mick said.
Spike heard footsteps fade into the distance, and then the doors of the car quickly opened and closed. The engine roared to life, and Spike felt the car begin to move.
"This sucks," Spike heard Freddy groan. Spike carefully shifted in the trunk toward the rear seat, focusing his keen hearing on the conversation from the front seat.
"Part of the job," Mick sighed.
"Not the job I signed on for," Freddy shot back. "I signed on for a piece of the action. There ain't no percentage in helping Greenway skip town."
"Well, there ain't no percentage in letting the boss get killed, either," Mick said. "Bryce don't like a welcher, and there's no way Greenway can pay what he owes us unless he can get to those Swiss accounts he set up."
"I don't know what the holdup is," Freddy groaned. "We got all the fake ID papers together a week ago."
"Freddy, would you want to spend eternity in an alternate dimension where slimy bug people eat entrails?"
"No."
"Neither would Mr. Greenway. And anybody with any sense knows it. You cross Magnus Bryce, you can bet a couple of dead nuns won't be enough to get him off your case. Hell, the guy in the trunk was probably working for him. The boss had to lay low until the heat was off."
"The boss should never have got that far into Bryce to begin with," Freddy mumbled.
"The magic worked," Mick said. "Worked good enough to make the boss plenty. More than enough to pay Bryce regular."
"Until he got pinched," Freddy replied. "Then we're all left high and dry, and smelling like tuna."
"Speaking of which," Mick said, as Spike felt the car ease to a stop. "We're here."
Spike's shifted, setting his feet for a quick pounce. As soon as the goons opened the trunk, he would be ready.
"Gotta knife?" Spike heard Mick ask from outside the car.
"This one," Freddy replied.
"That's a switchblade, you moron," Mick growled. "Do you know how long it'll take to get his head off with that?"
"Think he's a demon?" Freddy asked.
"Doubt it," Mick replied. "Bryce usually sticks to humans."
"What about the flabby demon?"
"Probably just lookin' to get some cash for a tip. Anyway, it won't matter once we take care of him."
'We'll see about that,' Spike thought, balling his hands into fists as he waited for the trunk to open.
"This guy here," Freddy said. "If he's something else, whaddaya think'll...you out?"
"Come out?"
"When we cut his head off?"
"Blood. Or ooze, if he's a demon. I heard some demons spurt out maggots."
"Um...maybe...you know...we could swing by a hardware store and get an axe? You know, one of those long-handled jobs that...?"
"Oh, screw it," Mick grumbled. "He looked human to me. Get the other side. I left it in neutral."
'Neutral?' Spike thought, only realizing that Mick referred to the gear shift as he felt the car slowly roll forward. Spike braced himself against the rear of the compartment, angling his legs to take a sharp kick at the trunk lid, when suddenly he felt his head slam against the roof of the trunk. His body tumbled in the small space as he heard a loud splash, and then a slow gurgle.
"Crap!" Spike exclaimed for the second time that night, as brackish water slowly seeped into the trunk.
TBC
A/N: Thanks to Estepheia for her input.