Hard Bite

by Anonymous-9

  "See you next week," I call cheerily.

  ***

  Well, that was pleasant. I suddenly remember my cell phone ringing its head off earlier. Not to mention what's been going on in the news since I last checked. I fire up the phone and put it on speaker while the message plays. It's Cinda.

  "I'm in the car. The body got found in Lakewood Park. Unidentified so far but they say it's an animal attack. You and Sid should stay in."

  I erase the message and look for the monkey in question. He's ready for brunch. While Sid dives into some chow, all local TV stations play live news coverage. The second guy has been found too, in Hawaiian Gardens. People are being warned to keep off the streets and parks, and stay in their vehicles in case of animal attacks.

  I nod my head at Sid. "When have we ever stayed in on a sunny day, huh?

  Sid crunches away noncommittally.

  Hmmm, gonna have to think about that. I really dislike using time unproductively. Chalk it up to my former life in insurance, up to my eyeballs in statistics. One develops an awareness that time is fleeting, life is short, and statistics are against us getting everything done that we want in this lifetime.

  My eyes roam over to the Homicide Investigation Standards and Practices Handbook, 5th Edition on the bookshelf. It's a great 900-page reference for moments of indecision like this. Flipping through, the Assessment section turns up, handy for the occasional check against a criminal personality profile. Killing can be addictive, it has a regressive effect on the mind. Good to self-assess now and then, even though I'm not in the freelance justice business for fun or money. I'm in it to provide closure and relief for peripheral victims like Dan Marshall's wife. And myself. Still, it's not a bad idea to make sure I'm not deviating from the original-intent mandate.

  Serial Murder: the unlawful killing of two or more victims by the same offender(s) on separate occasions.

  Reading that quote is always a letdown. I qualify as a serial murderer according to the broad definition, no getting around it. Flip to Profiling, page 792.

  A psychopathic killer is sadistic, impulsive, and organized.

  Am I sadistic? Nope, the quicker targets die the better. Plans are meticulously detailed in advance, not impulsively. I qualify on one quote only: organized. Lots of healthy people are organized. Serial killer, yes. Psychopathic killer, no. I am not one of them.

  That being said, is it so bad I enjoy my work?

  ***

  Over at the computer the screen flashes to life. Up comes the Los Angeles area Craigslist, under the "Wanted" section. A great place for drug deals, the Wanted section. Don't get me wrong, millions of legitimate transactions are conducted honestly via the site. But nothing is 100% pure on this earth. Under "Wanted" you'll find people looking for legal and not-so-legal stuff.

  Think for a minute of the garden variety hit-and-run driver. Not the most upstanding citizen. Anybody who flees the broken body of a person they've crashed is into nefarious shit in some other area of their life, guaranteed. A while ago on a whim, I placed my own Wanted ad on CL.

  Prescription Klonopin. I can advice you where to get it. 100% legal. Great meds for anxiety, tension, stress. All replies answered, NSA.

  You caught the typo, right? I can advice you where to get it? There I go again making stupid. I learned the hard way, it's smart to be stupid. You'll also notice I haven't offered the drug for sale and I've gone out of my way to say what I'm doing is 100% legal. There's no law that says you can't offer people free advice on how to get a prescription drug. It's advice every roofie popper in LA wants to know. No druggie can resist answering an ad like that. I pull them in hand over fist.

  Why Klonopin? Because it's a powerful anti-anxiety drug, and if you've recently wrecked somebody's life with your ride, anxiety is bound to be eating at your guts. Sooner or later I figured I'd find a hit'n runner in the CL Wanted. I smelled pay dirt when these emails came in from a hotmail account:

  "How do i get the K?"

  "Just like I did. A prescription. Doctor gave it to me after a car wreck."

  "You got some 4 sale?"

  "I might. I used it for a long time after a hit and run. It wasn't my fault. This shit works good when you need it."

  "I need it. That happened to me too."

  "You need this stuff bad, man. I give you a number to call me in a few days. I'll have a new refill by then."

  I open up my personal email account and IM the number of a throwaway cell I have especially for communication with drugsters.

  We agree to meet at a Santa Monica parking lot right on the beach along Pacific Coast Highway. I've even got real Klonopin. You should try it sometime, buddy. One 0.5mg tablet induces relaxation on par with over-boiled linguine. They're a cheery yellow color, all professionally stamped with lines and letters that scream, "I'm the real shit!"

  But we're not ready to go yet. I run a reverse look-up on the cell number captured on my phone and get the caller's real name. Sherryl Lynn Hastings. Her address is Tenth Street in Santa Monica.

  A credit check reveals she has a loan on a black 2008 Volkswagen bug co-signed by Roger Hastings, presumably a male relative or husband.

  I run a few searches for Volkswagens through my hit-and-run database created from news reports, insurance files and street interviews. It documents a dark colored Volks fled the scene of a west LA hit-and-run two months ago. Victim died at the scene. Car and perp never found. That's enough info for me to make an appointment for a little more conversation with Miss Hastings.

  I grab my van keys and Sid gives a look of surprise.

  "I know it's risky as hell," I say to him. "But you don't want Daddy to go to jail before he takes another bad guy down, do you?" Sid jumps on my shoulder and gives me a monkey scolding.

  "I know it's daytime, but we're driving in the opposite direction from last night. You like the beach, remember? After that we're going riding in the canyons. It'll be fun."

  I'm a persuasive son of a gun with monkeys. Bright and expectant, Sid scampers to the kitchen and brilliantly follows suggestions to pack a small cooler bag with sodas and ice, just the way we like it. The soft-sided bag goes on my lap, Sid perches on my shoulder, and we proceed to the parking garage fully loaded with 150 tabs of prescription Klonopin. Along with a couple of "special" ones dipped in colorless, odorless GHB, the date-rape drug. I don't let on to Sid, though.

  Chapter Six

  It's only a twelve-minute drive and the day is surely beautiful. There's a nice breeze taking the heat off that shiny California sun overhead, and the white sand stretches all the way to Malibu. On the other side of PCH, multi-million dollar shacks dot the hill and look down on the sand and surf from a complacent view of superiority. Nobody up there knows the good work going on under their noses. I'm just cleanin' up the beach trash, people. Cleanin' up the garbage for nice, rich people like you. We pull into one of the public beach parking areas and wait.

  She corners into the lot like the menace on wheels that she is; a neurotic mess of nerves posing as a nice-looking blonde in her late twenties. She's driving the Volks that somebody else probably makes the payments on, while she wastes her life away trying to become an actress. You can spot wannabe actresses in LA with deadly accuracy. They're the ones who spend all their energy looking fuckable, meanwhile they haven't had sex since Aretha sang at the inauguration—and then it was probably with a close relative. But I digress....

  With that nice, upper-middle-class upbringing you'd think Miss Hastings might have a little more moral character. But no. This would-be thespian dragged an old lady over a block of speed bumps, broke her in pieces and hightailed it out of there.

  I'm guessing she got the scratches and dings fixed up nice a few hundred miles away and voilá, no trace of nasty old lady left. She exits the Volks, all smiles and sparkles, and actress that she is, doesn't let any revulsion show when she sees me. She actually lights up when she sees Sid.

  I open the back, and let down the hydraulic ramp. "Do you f
eel okay about getting in here with me? I'd rather show you the merchandise in private."

  "Oh sure!" she burbles, and climbs aboard.

  "It's a little damp in here." I make a "sorry" face. "But at least you know it's clean."

  She shrugs without comment, all her attention on the pill bottle rattling in my hand. I open the bottle, shake a few "special" ones into my palm and hand them to her along with the bottle, for inspection. She knows what the real thing looks like, and this is it. She's so relieved, a big smile comes across her lovely, killer lips. I'd like to beat her to death with a tire iron right here. But I don't.

  "Sid," I say. "Soda." Sid drags the cooler bag along the floor, zips it open with utilitarian efficiency, and flips the lid back. Four cokes glisten on ice like a work of art; two diet, two classic. Sid brushes ice chips off the frosty cans. "Why don't you try one of those with a cold soda?" I mention. "You'll feel better. Diet or classic?"

  "Diet please."

  Sid hands her the correct can, gives a classic to me, and without permission helps himself to the other classic. None of that diet shit for Sid, he likes his sugar.

  Miss Hastings doesn't need to be invited twice, and knocks back one of the Klonopin roofies like a pro, with one gulp of her diet. She's enough of a lady not to burp—how do women do that? Meanwhile, Sid lets go a cannon-blast belch. He looks extremely unapologetic as I apologize for him. The lady, excuse me, the bitch, rescues the moment by handing me cash in an envelope. Sid politely assists. We count slowly—roofies take a few minutes. Providence intervenes when the cell phone rings and she takes the call. I was all ready to spill my cola in order to buy time and keep her in the van but a nice elongated chat will buy the time for me. She makes a half-hearted attempt to excuse herself but I wave her away. We are in no hurry, it's nothing but our pleasure to wait while she dilly-dallies through minutes of meaningless chitchat with an acting class companion.

  In the midst of debating the fine points of a scene from Three's Company, which they're performing for the class this evening, she slumps forward and actually folds the phone shut with her nose. Good stuff that GHB.

  She's snoozing in a heap as Sid and I pull out of the lot and follow PCH up and away from Santa Monica.

  ***

  It's amazing how little traffic there is during the day in the Malibu mountains. Sid is getting a sugar-high on from his cola, and I let him have fun jumping up and down on Miss Hasting's inert form. He knows he's not supposed to jump up and down on people when they're asleep, but it'll be our little secret.

  Sun is glancing off the waves to our left, as I swing into the Malibu canyons on my right. We climb higher and higher, admiring the green and brown hills with their play of sunlight on leaves and undergrowth. The road narrows and we climb higher still, closer to the sun until we can look hundreds of feet down, into a valley of brush and trees below. There are no trails leading down those steep slopes. Only the mountain creatures, big and small, go there.

  The tricky part is maneuvering the van so the rear wheels are as close to the edge of the drop-off as possible. Miss Hastings is already in position, but before I open the back, I take the precaution of restraining Sid with a soft collar attached to a chain wound around the passenger armrest. Safety first.

  It's just a matter of hitting the switch and there she goes. The back doors swing open, the hydraulic ramp extends, grinding loudly. Sherryl Hastings clears the doors, out over the glorious canyon. Her long shiny hair sweeps the van floor behind her like a ceremonial train. Singing is not my forté but musical accompaniment seems apropos. I hum a little from the theme of 2001: A Space Odyssey. Hmm Hmm HMM Huh HUMMMMM! Sid claps giddily.

  Then Sherryl Lynn wakes up. Her lids pop open. She takes in the blue sky above and the loooong drop below. Thrashing and squealing, she flips on her side and claws at the ramp.

  "Sid!" I holler. He looks to me for direction but there's no command for what needs doing. He's also chained to the steering wheel. A hard bite is out of reach. Sherryl has a grip on the ramp now and like a fool, I've already jabbed the retract button, counting my chickens well before they're hatched, and the thing is going to auto-reverse and pull her back in the van any second.

  "SID!" I holler again. He throws himself against the chain with all his might and moves a few feet forward into the back, far enough to grab the only thing close—her purse. It's a big red baggy affair filled with junk. Sid grabs it with both hands and half-strangled by the collar, heaves it with all his might. THOCKKK! It socks her right in the lip gloss. Her fingernails uncurl and gravity takes her down fast. The last thing to disappear is the train of blonde hair slipping off the ramp. A second of silence, then bushes ripple and branches break below. It takes her a while to bounce, crackle and jounce all the way to the bottom.

  Sound carries really well way up here.

  ***

  A whoosh of relief lets out of me. "Wasn't expecting that were we Sid?" I say as he coughs and sputters a little. The ramp retracts back inside, the doors close. I unclip Sid, and our heart rates return to normal. The van rattles shakily onto pavement and we putt-putt back down the canyon. Just a man and his monkey out for a sunny sightsee.

  It should take weeks to find her broken, maggot-rotted corpse.

  ***

  My mission is to take out as many hit-and-run drivers as possible before my life is over. Correction. Before this life is over. As you already know, good buddy, I'm more than fifty percent dead already. Only revenge animates this ravaged pile of flesh. There I go again, getting all philosophical. Gotta do something to keep spirits up and humor intact, right? Otherwise, the living, like Cinda, will desert me. Laugh and the world laughs with you, weep and you weep alone as people have been quoting since 1883 when Ella Whoever Wilcox originally said it.

  "Sid. Cassette!"

  His skinny black finger pokes "play" and Keni Lee Burgess revs into a great rendition of Vigilante Man. Sid likes his voice, too.

  The view is really spectacular on the way down. Ah, Los Angeles. Where the weather is balmy and the people are cold as hell. More crazies, psychopaths and megalomaniacs per capita than… words fail. This is not to blame the nice, normal people who were born here. It's the nuts that move here. Hey, I'm talkin' about myself! It would be so nice to go America-wide with this but physical limitations mean I have to settle for cleaning up LA. There's lots of cleaning up to do. More than one lone vigilante like myself can handle. But still—the soul yearns for more.

  I whistle along, taking it easy on the curves. Vigilante Cripple Man—rolling justice across Los Angeles one hit-and-run driver at a time.

  By the time we reach PCH again, four o'clock rush hour is in full swing and too many vehicles are too close at a slow speed. Anybody alongside in a truck or SUV the same height as the van could look in and see Sid helping me shift. Up ahead, I can see Neptune's Net, a beachside biker hangout famous for fresh seafood. It has the kind of old-Cali, sawdust-on-the-floor ambience that promises Sid will be welcome, or at least tolerated at one of the outside picnic tables. Plus, Sid loves fresh shrimp with tangy cocktail sauce. He'll be glad to sample the catch of the day while I call Cinda and ask if she can take a cab out to meet us and chauffeur the van back.

  Cinda won't be happy when I tell her where we've been. But I will tell her. The whole deal with us is telling the truth, bad or good. I accept her and what she does, no questions asked. When I showed her all my research on hit-and-runs and what I was doing, and why I was doing it, she said she respected it. I explained that knowing me made her an accessory to murder. She explained to me that knowing her made me a suspected pimp who could do prison time for living off the avails. We both thought about the implications and decided that the relationship was more important than the risks. We both come with baggage. It equals out. If I think too much about it it's scary, but life is pretty scary, dude. The quicker you realize that the better off you'll be. There are no guarantees on anything. If you can find a little comfort with someone who treats y
ou kindly and with loving respect, you better take it, no matter how it's wrapped. You know what I'm saying?

  We pull into Neptune's Net, get served by the capable staff, thank you God, and Sid settles in with a dish of fresh steamed peel 'n' eat shrimp. There are a few crusty old cruiser-riders in evidence, Viet Nam vintage, and they treat us with respect meaning they don't bat an eye at the cripple with the helper monkey scarfing shrimp at a picnic table.

  My call to Cinda goes to voicemail—she must be with a customer—so there's nothing to do but kick back and watch the sea on the other side of the highway. It's a million-dollar view from here. The property this old shanty sits on must be worth a fortune. Sid gives me a toothy grin as he dips a pink shrimp in cocktail sauce. Life is good.

  ***

  I arrive on the red-eye to LAX, ready for golden rays on my pasty face. Instead, I get June gloom as Angelenos call it—grey skies that hold the smog close over the city.

  A fully furnished place was waiting for me at The Waves Corporate Housing in Marina del Rey. All-handicap access with daily maid service, front-desk staff, 24-hour security and maintenance crew a few blocks from the beach. All I had to do was roll in, plug in the laptop and I was made. Yep, made in the shade.

  They sure do like cripples in LA. Door-to-door wheelchair van service from LAX to The Waves and my new corporate concierge and staff took it from there. I even had a gas fireplace in the wall and a balcony overlooking the pool for fifteen hundred a month. Try getting deal like that on the east coast. Starlets took in the sun out by the pool and soaked in the Jacuzzi by moonlight. Too bad none of it interested me.

  One night I was sitting out on my balcony, late, probably past midnight. A woman was walking through the pool area which my balcony overlooked. She was headed to the underground parking, long layered brunette hair swinging with a white trench coat, the belt undone and a short skirt underneath. Her legs were long, her shoes looked high enough to hurt and she walked with loose-limbed fatigue, like she'd worked hard and the night was finally over. An oversized bag dangled from one shoulder. She could have been an actress or... she could have been something else.