L.A. Bytes

by P. A. Brown

  David had heard the expression “not for the faint of heart,”

  but he’d never experienced it literally. The throb of noise was a physical assault, thrumming along his nerve endings and vibrating behind his eyes. He felt light-headed and breathless. His leather vest swung open and he wished he could have worn something under it, but Chris had been adamant. Nothing but leather, though he had conceded that jeans would have to be worn under the chaps for decency.

  Each costume was more outrageous than the last. A pair of big-busted drag queens teetered down the street on six-inch spikes, gargantuan boobs thrust out in front of their sequined L.A. BYTES 111

  gowns. One had at least a foot of fi re-red hair piled atop her head; the other sported a green Afro the size of a beach ball.

  A man who must have weighed three hundred pounds wore nothing but a massive diaper and a pacifi er stuffed in his mouth, carrying a three-foot bottle shaped like a penis which he used to squirt white foam over anyone who approached him.

  Chris and David expected to meet Des at the Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf. Six leather-clad men watched them approach, their eyes raking David, studying and dismissing him in one cold sweep.

  None of them wore an inch more leather than necessary to remain legal. “You’d look hot if you took those jeans off,” one hirsute guy said.

  “You can ride me anytime, cowboy,” said a slender Asian in a skintight angel suit. He stroked David’s hip, ignoring Hirsute’s scowl. He would have done some more sampling, but Chris pulled David away.

  “Tramp,” he sniffed, tugging David toward the door. “Come on, there’s a Moroccan Mint Latte with my name on it in there.”

  They entered the coffee house under the watchful gaze of a pair of horse cops. The county Sheriff ’s offi ce had jurisdiction over West Hollywood, so it was unlikely anyone would be out tonight who would recognize David. He still felt as though they registered him, and he read disapproval in their fl at cop eyes.

  He shrugged and followed Chris into the café.

  The coffee house was standing room only. David bulled his way to the counter, Chris trailing in his wake. Once he caught the eye of a server, he got Chris’s latte and a black coffee for himself.

  “Omigod, there’s Des,” Chris said and waved across the packed room.

  When Des broke through the crowd David couldn’t help it.

  He stared.

  Des was always impeccably dressed; as the owner of an upscale Beverly Hills clothing store it was part of his image.

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  Not tonight.

  Tonight he had donned a pair of skin-tight white pants that rode so low his pubic hair would have shown if he hadn’t shaved.

  His slender, muscular—and equally hairless—chest was barely covered with a tiny, white sleeveless vest. A mask covered the top half of his dark face, but didn’t conceal the crimson cat-eyed contacts he wore. David stared hardest at the fi ne silver chain that connected Des’s pierced nipples to his belly button ring.

  White and silver feathers dripped off Des’s mask and two cat ears perched atop his shaved head. Silver whiskers twitched whenever he moved his mouth. He had draped a white cattail over his left arm. He touched David’s arm with diamond-strewn nails that were nearly as long as his fi ngers.

  “You look fabulous, David,” Des said. He glanced at Chris.

  “If we weren’t such good friends, I’d give Chrissy a run for his money.”

  David laughed. “You look pretty good yourself—” He froze when a second fi gure came up behind Des, possessively putting a fur-covered arm around his bare shoulders.

  Trevor had kept to the cat motif. Only he had chosen a tiger outfi t that did nothing to conceal a body that clearly saw a lot of gym time. He was covered head to tail with black and orange stripes that should have looked ridiculous instead of sexy and dangerous. David was all too aware that a lot of appreciative eyes followed Trevor as he embraced Chris and kissed him full on the mouth.

  David and Des exchanged glances. Des looked amused. David fumed.

  “You’re still in town,” David said when Trevor held out his hand. “Business must be good.”

  “Couldn’t be better,” Trevor said. He glanced affectionately at Des. “I think I’ll stay a while this time.”

  A trio of silked and sequined queens who had bathed in uncomplimentary perfumes pressed against them as they tried to get to the counter. David stopped breathing.

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  “Come on.” He tugged Chris’s arm. “Let’s get out of here before we get stomped to death.”

  Outside the streets were even more crowded. David was surprised to see a number of families, complete with kids in tow, moving through the sea of costumes. Tiny ghouls and cloaked superheroes clung to their parents, goggle-eyed at the passing parade of color and high camp. Uncostumed tourists captured it all in digital memory; David could imagine the video shows they would play when they went back home.

  At least out here the air was breathable. He ignored the sweet smell of marijuana that rode the breeze and the chemical reek of poppers still used by some of the old habitués who hadn’t migrated to the more modern roofi es or crystal meth. Atop the smell of drugs the air was heavy with testosterone and adrenaline; the crowd grew edgy with just a hint of suppressed violence underlying the raucous laughter. On the fringes of the already volatile crowd a few placard carrying protesters tried to ferment dissension with God Hates Fags and Burn in Hell that were largely ignored.

  The horse cops were still there, and he spotted a couple further down the street, keeping an eye on the protesters. They were smart to use mounted units; a cop on foot wouldn’t have a hope in hell if the crowd turned. No doubt a few plainclothes were working the scene, alert for anything out of the ordinary.

  Tonight they would ignore the pot smokers and the drunks, their job was to watch for signs things were turning ugly.

  The four of them moved with the fl ow of the crowd.

  Music boomed and shuddered around them. Some enterprising bar owner had mounted several strobes, and they washed the crowded streets with pulsating light. Crimson and green and blinding white, they turned everything into a jittery kaleidoscope of painted shadows and light.

  The crowd carried them toward La Cienega. David found it almost as interesting to watch Chris as it was to observe everyone else around them. Chris fl irted with everyone he met, running from one costumed character to another like a kid experiencing 114 P.A. Brown

  his fi rst visit to Disneyland. He’d break out into a dance and haul someone off the sidelines to join him. As long as he’d known him, David had envied Chris his ability to grab life with both hands. He never cared what other people thought or said.

  David couldn’t be that carefree. He still hated it when people looked at him and muttered “faggot” under their breath.

  Chris tucked his hand into David’s back pocket. After a brief hesitation, David responded by draping his arm over Chris’s shoulder. They passed a stage that had been set up by a local radio station where a costume-judging contest drew a raucous throng.

  Beyond the stage an alley posted with prominent “No Parking” signs cut between two dark businesses. Over the hip-hop beat from the stage, David heard the deep roar of a large motorcycle engine. The restless crowd pushed them along; they passed the mouth of the alley.

  Light fl ared down the unlit brick corridor. The engine rumble grew in volume and a brilliant red bike scattered the mob on the sidewalk. The motorcycle growled and the driver popped a wheelie. The crowd fell back, screaming.

  David stumbled. Chris was wrenched from his arms and he thought he heard Des yelling. The motorcycle driver’s full-face visor was as red as his bike and David couldn’t see his face, but gut instinct told him the driver was staring straight at Chris and him as it roared past. The bike slewed around, eliciting more screams and panic.

  David yelled and grabbed Chris, who nearly went down in the surging mob. David wrenched him to
his feet. “Run!” He thrust Chris out of the path of the returning motorcycle.

  Something slammed into his side, spinning him around. The motorcycle roar fi lled his senses. Hot exhaust fl ooded his lungs and he looked up to see the bike spinning back around.

  He lunged to his feet, and threw himself sideways, but the rear tire of the bike fl ipped around and plowed into his legs, sending him fl ying backwards. His head smashed against pavement; debris L.A. BYTES 115

  scraped his skin raw. Light fl ared behind his eyes. Someone’s foot slammed into his gut. He was being trampled in the panic.

  People were yelling; he recognized Chris’s voice. He slid away into dark silence.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Tuesday 10:10 pm, Cedars-Sinai Medical Center, Beverly Boulevard, Los Angeles

  Chris paced the waiting room. David had been with the emergency doctor for nearly an hour. Des piped up for the third time.

  “Honey, he’s going to be okay,” Des said. “He’s not in surgery or anything. He’ll be fi ne.”

  Chris stopped pacing when a uniformed Sheriff ’s deputy entered the room. Des and Trevor stood. The deputy looked like he might be eighteen with a face full of baby fuzz. He was distinctly unhappy to be where he was and kept darting nervous glances at the three of them. Des fl uttered over to Trevor who gave him a brief hug. The deputy averted his eyes. He looked at Chris.

  “Christopher Bellamere?”

  Chris nodded. He swept a hand through his hair, encountering the beaded headband he had put on earlier. He dragged it off and stuffed it in his pocket, patting his spiked hair back into place.

  “I’m Chris. Are you here to see David?”

  “I’m Deputy Kenneth Dumont,” he said. “I need statements from everyone who was there when the incident occurred.” His piercing blue eyes swept over Chris then moved to Des and Trevor, who had joined them. “Were you all there?”

  They nodded.

  Dumont swept his hand down the hall leading away from the waiting room and its crowd of watchers. “Let’s go someplace where we can talk.”

  They ended up near the stairwell, behind a large Fichus.

  “Now, tell me what happened,” Dumont said, pen poised over a notepad.

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  “We were just walking down the boulevard,” Chris said.

  “Going with the crowd. This bike came out of nowhere and plowed into us.”

  “I think he came out of the alley,” Des said.

  “He?” Dumont asked. “The bike rider was male?”

  “I’ve seen women ride bikes that size before,” Des said. “But I think this was a guy. It’s just the impression I got. I couldn’t see his face or anything.”

  “What did you see?” Dumont asked. “When you say he came out of nowhere and plowed into you, do you mean deliberately?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Chris said rubbing his elbow where it had scraped along the pavement. He remembered all too well, the sight and sound of the big machine bearing down on him and David. “I’d say it was deliberate.”

  Dumont scribbled in his dog-eared notebook. “Any idea why someone would want to do that?”

  “Nutcases,” Des said darkly. “Wackos who want to kill faggots.

  You saw those protesters out there. Why aren’t you talking to them or does that make your list too long?”

  Normally Chris might have agreed with Des, but he had his own ideas about who might have been out to target David and him. He shook his head. “It wasn’t the anti-gay crowd. David’s LAPD. Homicide detective. David Eric Laine.”

  “Any reason to think this may be related to something Detective Laine is working on?”

  Chris didn’t want to say that David wasn’t actually working on anything right now. He could just imagine what this guy would think about a cop who was on forced leave because they suspected he was into kiddie porn. Chris could hardly tell him about Bolton and his girlfriend.

  “I don’t know.” He shrugged in answer to Dumont’s question.

  “We don’t talk about his work much.” Chris knew why David L.A. BYTES 119

  kept him out of that side of his life, and after his brush with it when the Carpet Killer tried to kill him, he didn’t mind at all.

  “Would you be able to identify the motorcycle?”

  They all traded looks. Chris shrugged. “It was big and red.

  One of those crotch rockets.”

  “What about the rider?” Dumont asked. “Can you think of anything specifi c about him? Was he white? African-American?

  Asian? Thin? Fat?”

  “He was covered in leather,” Chris said and the other two nodded. “He even had gloves on. He defi nitely wasn’t fat, though.

  Maybe one fi fty? One-sixty?”

  “One-sixty,” Des said. “Probably around fi ve-eight or nine. I ought to know, I dress men all day.”

  The deputy looked nonplused until Chris explained. “He owns Samborra’s.”

  “Samborra’s?” Dumont asked.

  “It’s a men’s clothing boutique in Beverly Hills.”

  “Anyone get a license plate?”

  “Sorry,” Chris said. “It happened so fast.”

  Dumont didn’t cover his disappointment well. He held out a card to Chris. “If you think of anything else, call me.”

  “Sure, no problem. Can I see David now?”

  “The doctor said she’d be right out.”

  The deputy left. Returning to the waiting room, Chris slipped into the seat Des had vacated. Des sat across from him, squeezed between an overweight woman in a too-large pink and orange muumuu and a fi dgety boy who kept kicking his chair.

  The doors to the emergency room swung open and a white-coated woman entered the waiting room. “Christopher Bellamere?”

  Chris stood up and followed her. He caught up with her at the door. “Is David all right?”

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  “He sustained no major injuries,” the doctor said. “We’ve made arrangements to have him transferred to Ste. Anne’s. I’ve already been in touch with his doctor, and he’ll meet David there.”

  “But he’s okay?”

  The doctor glanced at her chart. “All his injuries are superfi cial.

  He may sport some bruises for a few days, but there’s no internal bleeding or bone fractures and there’s no head trauma.”

  “Why does he have to go back to Ste. Anne’s?”

  “We received orders.” She frowned. “We’ve been instructed to move him. A Dr. Abrahms requested the transfer.”

  “If he’s okay I can drive him—”

  “We’re required to send him in an ambulance.”

  “When will he be going?”

  “We should have him there by midnight.”

  Wednesday, 1:20 am, Ste. Anne’s Medical Center, Rowena Avenue, Silver Lake

  David blinked his eyes open. He must have dozed off while he waited for Chris. He blinked some more and focused on the fi gure standing at the end of the bed.

  “David?” Chris stepped forward. “You awake, hon?”

  “Yeah, I guess,” he said. He frowned and looked around the room. “This is getting to be a nasty habit.”

  “Safer to take up smoking.” Chris sat down on the edge of the bed. Anxiety burned tracks along his already frazzled nerves.

  “Why’d they send you here?”

  David shrugged. “They were being overrun at Cedars.”

  “I was there. They didn’t look overrun.” Chris told him what the Cedar’s doctor told him. “Talk to Abrahms. Something’s not right—”

  “Now you’re being paranoid.”

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  A starched nurse rustled through the door. It was Laura. Chris snapped to his feet.

  “You again,” she said.

  “I won’t leave until I know what’s happening with David—”

  “Chris, it’s okay. Go home,” David said. “I’ll call you in the morning.”

  “I’m not leaving.”r />
  “You can’t stay here,” Laura said. “Visiting hours are over—”

  “He’s my husband. You can’t kick me out—”

  David grabbed his hand. “I need to grab some shut eye. Come back in the morning, you can bring breakfast. How about huevos revueltas?”

  Laura made a noise in her throat. Chris stepped back from the bed. “I’m going. I don’t like it, but I’m going.” To David, “I’ll bring your clothes.”

  David looked at the bag that held the ruined leather and jeans he had worn for only a couple of hours. “Guess you better.”

  Wednesday, 9:45 am, Café Fresco, Rowena Avenue, Silver Lake, Los Angeles

  The interior of the Café Fresco was redolent with grilled chorizo and beans and the sharp tang of freshly cut cilantro. The girl working the counter was barely out of her teens and looked like she was about nine months pregnant. She moved with surprising grace despite her girth.

  He ordered two huevos revueltas then fl ipped his Blackberry out and dialed the hospital switchboard. Within seconds he was talking to David.

  “Hey,” Chris said. “I’ll be there in two. You better not have eaten.”

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  “Hospital food?” David laughed. “You must be joking. I hope you brought clothes.”

  Chris glanced at his Andiamo carryon stuffed with pants, shirts, boxers and socks. “Of course. Be right there.”

  Twenty minutes later he stepped outside the little restaurant, a large sack of food swinging against his leg as he waited for traffi c to clear before crossing the road. Before he could step off the curb a familiar fi gure stepped out of the hospital.

  Bolton scanned the street and glanced back the way he had come. Seconds later he pulled a Blackberry out and studied the tiny screen.

  Even from where he stood outside the restaurant, Chris could see Bolton frown and throw a nervous look behind him. He took the stairs two at a time and trotted down the street. He jumped into the unlocked Cavalier and pealed away.

  Chris stared after him for all of two seconds, then swore and darted across the street, narrowly missing being hit by a blue van that pulled to the curb in front of him. Amid squealing tires and a protesting horn, Chris raced up the hospital steps David! What the hell had Bolton been doing at the hospital?