Hard Bite

by Anonymous-9

  I nod and sip and murmur as the hands of my watch creep around. Someone leaves and lets in light from the outside, turned a deep gold. The day is fading. I ask the waitress for a couple of burger platters. First, I don't want us getting cut off from more beer, and second, a small plan is forming in the back of my mind. Wouldn't it be great to take this guy out? My parting gift to LA…

  After we eat—and I must say, those big, fat Saloon burgers do look delicious, I'm only pretending to nibble at mine—I start pouring it on a little thicker. My murmurs escalate to "That's awesome" and "Wow." It's like the more Marty talks, the more he can talk. The most inane questions set him off on a tangent for uninterrupted minutes.

  "You know something, Marty?" I say.

  "What's that?" He pauses for the first time in two and a half hours.

  "I think you're a really good guy."

  "Gee, thanks. You're okay too."

  "I can tell we can do a lot more talking. What do you say we go to my place for a pot of coffee? I'll double your fee. If you're not too tired that is."

  "The time's gone real quick. Sure I can talk some more. Double? That's six hundred, right?"

  "Hundred dollar bills work for you?"

  "How do we get there?"

  "Just follow me up Sepulveda."

  He looks a little dubious.

  "I have a handicap-access van, modified for my special needs," I explain. "Been driving it for years."

  The explanation works with five beers in him already. "Where you parked?"

  "A few blocks from here. I just need to roll over there and get it."

  "I'm in the beach lot."

  "Pull out and look for my van. I'll wait on Washington pointed east."

  I signal the waitress and leave a hefty tip. Another minute and I'm headed down the street to Del Rey Tower while Marty gets his car. It gives me time to consider that even though a revisit to Malibu would be closer and more convenient, Sepulveda is in Los Angeles Police Department territory. Sepulveda is the longest street in LA County, running from Long Beach to the San Fernando Valley. It's good to kill in different jurisdictions, disrupt my geographic profiling, my zone of behavioral activity, as the Homicide Investigation Standards and Practices Handbook puts it. The insurance actuary in me weighs my exposure. Up until now, I've killed exclusively on LASD turf.

  How well do the LAPD and the LASD work together? About as well as the FBI and the CIA, I'd guess. In other words, nothing to worry about in terms of co-operation. I decide to lead Marty up Sepulveda, past the tunnel through the mountain. When you come out the other side it's trippy runoffs. And after dark, it's like a ghost town.

  ***

  Sid and I wait patiently until Marty appears in the rearview, driving an elderly Volkswagen Rabbit, with the top down. He must have replaced the car he totaled with this creampuff. Is everything about this guy out of date? I'm one to talk, driving my relic, of course. Sid eases the shifter into Drive and we pull out just ahead of the Rabbit. I wave cheerily out the window and settle for a sedate thirty-five miles per. The darker this night gets, the better. My cell dings. It's a text from Cinda who is probably through with her client. She'll have to wait.

  Arlington Cemetery comes up on the right—west coast version. Mercury vapor streetlights cast deep yellow light and long shadows. To the left, the Getty Museum on the side of the hill is lit up like a castle—parapet and all.

  9:06 P.M. We drive under Sunset Boulevard. Behind, Marty's coming right along. I accelerate to forty and he matches me. Visions of hundred dollar bills must be dancing in his head.

  9:09 P.M. Three minutes since we passed a car. We're the only ones heading north.

  Civilization ends at about Moraga Boulevard and street lights are getting fewer and farther between. There's two lanes of traffic on either side and houses are thinning out. Now only trees are on either side of us, plus a big retaining wall that abuts the 405.

  9:11 P.M. One car passes heading south. Even if there is an accident, there's no guarantee anyone will pay attention or stop or call for help. This is LA. I'll take my chances.

  Climbing to the Skirball Centre. Signs say North parking and East Parking, but the whole theatre is dark tonight. No plays, no entertainments, no audience.

  The road narrows to one lane in each direction. The tunnel is ahead, a hole cut right into the mountain rock. It swallows us. Overhead, a strip of painfully bright mercury vapor lights. Marty dutifully stays one car space behind. In the glaring light I can see the tattered edges of the Rabbit's roof fluttering. Now I know why he's got the top down—it's torn to shreds. The tunnel ends, and going out the other end another car passes us going south. 9:16 P.M.

  I pull to the left side of the lane and slow down till I'm alongside Marty's car. He looks at me inquiringly, and I make a motion for him to pull ahead of me. As he does, I accelerate, so he has to go faster, keeping him alongside. I can hear the rhythm of our tires spinning on the pavement. A few seconds later we pass Valley Meadow. Lots of elm trees and a slope beyond. There are no houses for hundred and hundreds of yards past this spot.

  Again, Marty throws me a querying look but I motion him ahead and smile. We're doing almost fifty as we hit the turn and I lean the heavy van into him, forcing him to go with the centrifugal force of the curve. We race downhill and on the right shoulder is a wooden fence—so weathered it's silver, meaning the wood is extremely soft. Behind the fence is a steep drop into a culvert. The Rabbit will go through that wood like it was made of toothpicks and drop out of sight till morning.

  A quick look to my right. Marty's growing frantic. This is it. He takes one hand off the wheel to blare the horn. A mistake in my favor. All it takes is one turn of the wheel. I throw all my weight behind it and heave into the Rabbit side-on. CLASHHHH. Metal on metal. Sid shrieks. My Chevy thrashes and rocks. The Rabbit jumps the shoulder and takes out the weathered fence—shattering into brittle sticks. I pump the brakes and look back. The Rabbit's nowhere in sight, the fence has a big vacancy smashed in it. Dust and splinters dance in the void. Marty lies in the road—thrown clear of the wreck.

  I should run. I should finish the drive to the end of Sepulveda where it spits out onto Burbank Boulevard. I should but I don't. I can't. I reverse back down the lane and pull alongside Marty's body. He's shaking and still breathing. I pull off to the side, tie Sid to the steering wheel and put down the hydraulic ramp. I hurry down it, toward him. My wheelchair sounds pathetic in the wake of mayhem—a slow squeaking. He opens his eyes. "Why'd you do that?' he says in a matter-of-fact way. I match his tone, " "Because you're a fucking hit and run driver. You deserve to die."

  He groans and shuts his eyes. Opens them again and heaves himself on all fours. He starts crawling to the road shoulder. The patches of his old sport coat are torn. His shoes are missing and one sock has a hole in it. "I'm not, I'm not…" he gasps.

  "That's what they all say, Marty. All hit and runners are innocent. According to them."

  "No. I made the story up. I'm a screenwriter… Marty reaches the shoulder and scrabbles at the dirt. He can't quite make the three-inch lift. Instead, he rolls onto the shoulder and pushes up on all fours again. "I needed money."

  "You what?"

  His eyes meet mine. In the van's headlights, they sparkle—a direct gaze animated with honesty. Marty is telling the truth.

  "You stupid A-HOLE! MADE IT UP???"

  His eyes fog and he collapses, slow-motion, in the dirt. I'm frozen for a beat, two beats, three. I roll over to him. "Marty, wake up! Wake up!"

  I scramble for my cell and laboriously dial 911. They pick up right away and I spit-shout, "A crash. Top of Sepulveda. Send an ambulance."

  "What is your location, sir?"

  "Just past Valley Meadow, north."

  "You say there was an accident?"

  "He's lying on the side of the road. Send paramedics."

  I turn the phone off. I get back in the van. Help will probably come from Burbank, it's closer, so I speed back down,
the way we came. Groaning out loud as my mind races:

  I killed an innocent man.

  I killed an innocent man.

  I killed an innocent man.

  This is not me.

  This is not who I am.

  This is not who I am.

  A quarter mile down, I smash my cell phone on the dashboard and pitch the SIM card out the window. I shout at the windshield:

  "Son of a Bitch you fucking Grim Reaper. Keep me walking dead. Rolling dead. Motherfucka you—"

  Sid cowers on the seat and watches me with eyes like Marty's—sparkling with truth, but minus the power to do anything about it. I rant and rave like a madman, all the way back down.

  Washington Boulevard has an uneasy stillness. The night holds its breath. We return to the Del Rey. I go straight to the computer and google "Marty Hatchfeld." His Facebook page profiles a down-and-out Hollywood screenwriter with his last script sale in '95. There's a photo from about twenty years ago and he wasn't that photogenic, even then. It's for sure the tabloids won't mourn Marty Hatchfeld.

  A final thought slices into me: He was killed by a hit and run driver. Behind me, I hear Death laughing, long and hard.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  LASD Homicide Bureau, Commerce

  "What you got there?" Doug peers over Leone's shoulder at her computer screen. It's late. Very late, but there's a stack of stuff they need to get through.

  "It's called Dulce de Leche, a new flavor." She indicates a giant container of take-out coffee. "Try some."

  "Not that. That." He points to the screen titled Hit and Run Statistics. He reads out loud, "Cases in LA and California have the highest fatalities in the country."

  Leone swivels to look at him. "Remember those college students hit in a crosswalk at USC?

  "Vaguely."

  "One of them got carried on the windshield so the driver stopped, not to help the kid, but to peel him off and dump him on the ground. Ring a bell?"

  Doug winces. "Any relation to our cases?"

  "None so far."

  "Let's look at this then." He shows her a well-used interoffice mailer from downtown, the flap tied down with string. He removes a sheet of paper that has obviously passed through a dozen hands and official stampings before finding its way to Doug's desk. Smoothed flat, the printing is neat on ordinary, lined paper.

  Dear Law Enforcement,

  Hector Stamos was not killed by a dog. He was bit in the neck by a monkey. There is a man in a wheelchair, with a monkey, at 17240 Washington Blvd. in Venice. He kill Hector over a passport maybe. Please help. God bless you.

  It's unsigned.

  Leone, "Well, well, well."

  "Run the address. See if it's for real."

  She clicks away on the computer. "17240 is the Del Rey Tower. It's real." More clicking. "Current occupant is Dean M. Drayhart." Leone peers closely at something onscreen.

  "What is it?"

  "Says he was rendered a paraplegic in 2009. It was a hit-and-run."

  ***

  LA City limits. Orella sits alone in the back of a black town car. Tired. She misses Maria's company and can't wait to get back in her own bed. The drive from TJX has been smooth. A cell phone up by the driver rings. He answers, holds it out.

  "It's for you."

  "Hola Señora. I am Diego. I work at Del Rey."

  "Si, Diego."

  "The monkey man is back, Señora. He come back tonight."

  "He's there right now?

  "Si."

  Rage insta-boils in her skull. The police have done nothing. Even with the address mailed to them, they let a murderer walk free. She snaps the phone shut and addresses her driver. "What you got on you, carnale?"

  "My S&W."

  "I'll take it. I'm out of cash right now. Tell Mateo what else we owe. He'll pay you the rest."

  He hands over a Smith and Wesson revolver with a homemade silencer screwed on the end.

  "Loaded?" Without waiting for an answer she opens the chamber. It's full. "Turn around, we're going to Washington."

  "We doing a job, Señora?"

  She sizes him up for a moment. "Just drop me. Don't hang around. I'll call when I need you." She slips the grey hairpiece out of her purse and jams it back on her head.

  ***

  I wake up on the parquet floor of the apartment. Must have passed out and slipped out of my chair. Sid chirrups at me from the couch, just as someone taps at the door. I croak Cinda's name.

  "Your neighbor down the hall, sir," a female voice answers.

  Try the door, I've fallen out of my chair.

  The door cracks open and a grey-haired lady slips around it. She glances at Sid and pulls something out of her purse.

  "Do I know you?" Then I notice what's in her hand. A gun. "Wow," I say stupidly.

  She kicks the door shut and takes aim at Sid. Pulls off a shot. The silencer muffles the retort as a couch cushion explodes. Sid screams in surprise. Unharmed, he vaults onto the living-room curtains. I feel the woman's hesitation. An excited monkey is a tough moving target but blowing out the street-side windows might not be the best move.

  "That animal killed my son," she blurts.

  Sid jumps back to the coffee table. POW. The acrylic top takes the shot. Sid skitters under the couch as gunpowder collects in the air. The woman sneezes.

  From my prone position on the floor I venture a distraction. "Your son? Lady I don't know your son."

  She faces me full on and snatches at her hair. The grey disappears and long dark hair spills out. "Lakewood Park."

  I hear myself hiss, "He killed a good man with four children."

  BLAM! This shot hits the metal leg of the couch and flies wild into a baseboard. "I can prove it!" I yell." I'll show you!"

  ***

  Every nerve screams at her to kill him now. But she can't pull her eyes away from that scrawny face, the oversized eyes. He's calling Ambrose a killer? What's this about a man with four children? Need-to-know sucks the fuel from her hatred.

  "Prove it" she says in a voice so dry and cracked it sounds a hundred years old.

  "It's on-line," he says, crawling to his wheelchair. He looks up. "I can't get up by myself."

  What are the chances this paralyzed scarecrow can disarm the situation? Orella purses her lips, squints left and right around the room... then cautiously sets the gun on a peninsula of acrylic still clinging to the ruined coffee table.

  "If you grab me under the arms..." He pushes up into a sitting position.

  To Orella it's like lifting a child.

  He wheels away, chair squeaking, and the sound starts her stomach jittering. He taps a few keys. "The accident happened April 17th. Your son had a car repair right after that, right?"

  The Mustang. The front end. "Yes."

  "Know why?"

  "He hit a norteno. It was nothing."

  "Look."

  The news website loads. A headline reads, "Father of four slain in hit-and-run." The date and time matches Ambrose's accident. Her palms grow slick on the gun. The Smith starts to jitter in time with her stomach.

  The crippled man speaks softly. "If it's any consolation, I lost a daughter myself."

  "What?"

  "To a hit and run driver."

  His terrible eyes hold the truth and they slice to the quick. She tries to speak but her lips won't co-operate, throat full of gravel.

  "I'm sorry, I can't hear you," the man says. His eyes flick behind her and she turns to see the monkey beside the coffee table, reaching out a black paw to touch the Smith. "HEY," she screams and the monkey screams too, snatching back his paw like it's been burnt. The gun falls to the floor and spins harmlessly as the creature dives back under the sofa. She strides over, snatching up the weapon. "Thought you'd get lucky, huh? LOSER."

  The Smith aims at the sofa and fires twice. BLAM, BLAM. Stuffing explodes in the air. An enraged howl under the smoking furniture and the little beast charges. Zigzaging forward, nasty teeth bared. Another shot—wild a
gain. He leaps up, knocking the Smith from her grasp. The gun somersaults skyward, rotating end over end, and as it comes down it fires in Orella Malalinda's face.

  ***

  Blood creeps over the parquet floor. Everything is silent, tiptoe quiet. Sid and I blink and stare, blink and stare. Is she dead? Blink. Stare. Blink. Stare. Sid breaks the spell. The lady's purse lies streaked with liquid red drooling down the side. He hops over to it, examines it, smells it, and extracts objects one by one—an empty money clip, ID that looks real but probably isn't, a dainty purse-pack of tissues. The bag is nearly empty by the time he discovers a shiny object. He jumps on my lap to show it. A religious medal of the Virgin Mary. Engraved on the back: Orella, te quiero, Alejandro.

  Who is she? What 20-something man has a mother who packs a pistol and tracks his killer down instead of calling police? I turn back to the computer.

  A Google search of Orella + Alejandro brings up the surname Malalinda, and a lurid association of crime, drugs and Mexican mafia. Now I know who the clowns were at Baja Cantina.

  A key wiggles in the lock.

  "Cinda, don't—"

  The door opens. Cinda gasps. She steps over the body and grabs the back of my chair pushing me and Sid out the door. It slams behind us, and we rush for the elevator, leaving red tracks in the hall. The elevator car is still waiting and we pile on. Fifth floor the car slows and the overhead number lights up. A woman gets in with a basket of laundry. She doesn't seem to notice the shade of red on my wheels, and gets out on B. We continue to P.

  At the Firebird, I come to my senses. "Cinda it's all over."

  "Explain later."

  "Did you hear me? It's over."

  She's opening the doors. Popping the trunk—in steamroller mode.

  "I killed a guy earlier. A guy who didn't do anything."

  "You what?"

  "I fucked up. I killed an innocent man."

  "I don't care!"

  "I have to turn myself in. "

  "No, no NO!"

  I do the only thing I know how. I roll close. "Listen to me." She bends down. I slap her hard with my good hand. "Get the fuck outta here. it's over. Can't you see that? FUCK OFF."