Page 12 of The Damage Man

“If these guys catch up to me … and do what they’re gonna do…” Blake sips in a jerk of a breath. “Will anyone even care? I mean my mom’ll do her hysterical shit but she does that when the cat gets sick. But I mean, I haven’t made a mark. No wife, no kids, a failed stupid fucking business. I mean, protein bars. What the actual fuck.” He scratches at the back of his head. “Guess I wanted to matter. To someone.”

Evan slides from the booth and stands. “I’m gonna pay Ivan a visit.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Go to your dad’s place. Text the address to me at 1–855–2-NOWHERE.”

“Weird number.”

“Weird situation. I’ll meet you there after.”

Blake picks up the burner phone from the table and shoves his chair back, legs screeching. “I don’t want to talk to him.”

Evan says, “Then don’t.”

A Caribbean-teal sign declaims INNER TIDE.

A cloying name for a float-therapy studio.

The strip mall also hosts a check-cashing joint, a vape shop, and an ornate restaurant called Peking Palace. It’s buzzing, stoners toking on a bench, kids grinding skateboards down a handicap ramp, diners carrying out Chinese leftovers in elaborate tinfoil swans.

Evan finishes smoothing superglue across his fingertips. It dries almost immediately, sealing off his prints. He checks the steady blinking location dot on his phone once more as traffic whizzes by behind him on Pico Boulevard. Then he enters the studio.

A cutesy service menu, curlicue handwriting on a chalkboard, hangs behind a reception desk topped with a slab of driftwood, listing prices and packages. A middle-aged woman with cat-eye glasses and gray curly hair looks up at him. “Hiya! I’m Destiny. Ready to float with us? We’re offering a free trial.”

“Sure.”

“Ever tried it?”

“Once or twice. Looking for a new place.”

“Then let’s do this!” Destiny pulls out a clipboard stacked with legal indemnifications. Tattooed butterflies spiral up her forearms. “You already know the basics. You’ll be in twelve-inches of water heated to body temp and saturated with a thousand pounds of Epsom salt so you’ll float in there, entirely suspended. We use highest-standard UV and ozone to keep the water hygienic. Pods are designed to eliminate all external sensory input—sight, sound, touch, all of it.” She gestures grandly, costume rings clacking. “A heavy insulated door seals the pod but you can open it yourself if you get claustrophobic. It is dark in there, pitch black, totally lightproof.”

Evan finishes initialing the forms and hands over a driver’s license in the name of Eliot Ness. “How about soundproof?”

“Oh yeah,” she says. “For sure.”

Evan says, “Excellent.”

The private changing room is austere. Teak bench, shower, locker, poster proclaiming LIFE ALWAYS OFFERS YOU A SECOND CHANCE. IT’S CALLED TOMORROW. The enormous round hatch to the tank looks like a submarine bulkhead.

Evan listens through the changing door until Destiny’s footsteps fade.

Then he eases it open and steps into the hall.

The chalkboard motif continues here in the inner sanctum, each client’s name written on a small board framed with woven straw. His reads Eliot, scrawled in Destiny’s florid hand, the “i” dotted with—you guessed it—a butterfly.

He walks the carpeted hall, reading the mini chalkboards. Rae. Skye. Sage. Milo.

And there: ivan. The “i” is lowercase, of course, to allow for a lepidopteran dot.

Evan steps inside the empty changing room.

Ivan has shucked his clothes, including a leather jacket, no doubt on brand but ill-advised given the Angeleno heat. Evan sits on the teak bench and goes through the pockets.

Folding knife, Glock, wallet stuffed with cash, phone.

The phone is password-protected.