You Only Live Once

by Haris Orkin

“A brutal enemy has infiltrated her Majesty’s Secret Service. We’re the only ones left. The world’s last, best hope.”

  “James—”

  “I called directory assistance and they gave me the number for Tiny’s”

  “What?”

  “I was also able to obtain an address and a cross street. It’s at the corner of Lankershim and Tiara.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “The message on Dulcie’s answering machine.”

  Flynn pulled into the parking lot of a grimy mini-mall with a carniceria, a coin laundry, a Spanish-language video store and, on the far end, Tiny’s Tap, a decrepit hole-in-the-wall bar. Twelve gleaming Harleys sat parked out front.

  “Shit, ese,” said Sancho. “You’re not thinking about going in there?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?” Flynn said as he reached into the back seat for the .44 Magnum.

  “What do you need that for, man?”

  “They may be holding Dulcie prisoner, and if so they won’t exactly be happy to see me, will they?” James climbed out of Sancho’s Mustang and tucked the huge revolver inside his pants. It created a rather pronounced bulge under his dusty Tuxedo jacket.

  “If you think I’m going in there with you, you’re fuckin’ nuts.”

  “I’m not asking you to.”

  “Well, you’re fuckin’ nuts anyway! You’re gonna get yourself killed!”

  Flynn ignored Sancho’s warning and headed for the beat-up front door of Tiny’s Tap. Sancho automatically reached for his cell phone before remembering that Flynn had thrown it out the window. He scanned the parking lot and saw a payphone at the edge of the 7-11’s parking lot. He climbed from the Mustang and hurried over. The handset was off the holder and the phone was sticky with the residue of a Big Gulp. Sancho gingerly picked it up and quickly determined there was no dial tone. Then he saw that the handset wasn’t even connected. The frayed wires dangled free.

  “Fuck!” He unstuck it from his ear and slammed it down.

  Chapter Eight

  James Flynn couldn’t see a thing when he first entered Tiny’s Tap. The dim lighting and dark, dirty walls forced him to squint. As his eyes adjusted, he saw a few tables, a long well-worn bar and, in the rear of the room, a threadbare pool table. It was a gritty, biker bar frozen in time, ripe with thirty years worth of spilled beer, piss, Lysol, cigarette smoke, and vomit. Rough-looking assholes in greasy denim and black leather crowded the bar with their big arms, hairy beer guts, scraggly beards, long hair, bandanas, and faded tattoos. Most wore sleeveless jean jackets with a grinning devil’s head patch on the back. The grinning demon smoked a fat cigar and above his head were the words, “Satan’s Slaves.”

  James Flynn was probably the first person ever to walk into Tiny’s Tap wearing a tuxedo. He seemed surprisingly at ease as he ambled in, smiling charmingly at all the biker babes, many of whom appeared to be quite taken with him.

  While Flynn was busy making new friends and enemies, Sancho was having a shit fit. He pushed through the doors of the 7-11 and put his face in the face of the perplexed East Indian man working the register. “I am with someone who’s insane,” Sancho announced. “And I need to use your phone.”

  “Insane?”

  “Yes!”

  “I see no person.”

  “He’s not with me!”

  “Didn’t you just say he was with you?”

  “He’s dangerous! He needs help!”

  “Who?”

  “The person I’m with!”

  “But you are not with anyone.”

  “Just give me your goddamn phone!” Sancho reached over the counter. The clerk tried to hold him back.

  “No, no, no…I think no.”

  “Don’t you understand! He’s out of his fucking mind!”

  “Get out of here. Go!”

  “He has a gun!”

  “You?”

  “Him!”

  “Who?”

  “Asshole! Just give me the fucking phone!”

  “All right,” said the Indian man. He reached under the counter and came up with a 9mm Glock. He aimed the automatic at Sancho’s forehead. All the blood drained from his face.

  “Everyone has a fucking gun,” Sancho mumbled.

  “Will you be going now?” the Indian man asked.

  “Yes.” Sancho slowly backed away. “Just put the goddamn gun down.”

  “I don’t think so,” the Indian man said.

  A hard-looking bleached blonde with a huge freckled chest offered James a come-hither smile. She smoked a cigarette and wore a black halter top that displayed her cleavage like two huge scoops of cookies and cream ice cream. Her face might have been attractive a few thousand beers ago.

  “Hey, baby.” The blonde’s voice was deep and raspy. “You seem a little lost. You looking for Starbucks?”

  A couple of her biker babe friends laughed. They all looked like they’d been around the same sad block a few too many times. Too many bong hits, cigarettes, and disappointments etched permanent lines into their thirty and forty-something faces.

  A skinny redhead with bloodshot eyes said, “You wanna order a double decaf nonfat latte?”

  Her comment elicited more laughter as James, smiling with good humor, edged past the biker chicks and bellied up to the bar. “Actually, I was hoping for a martini.”

  The bartender, a fat, bald biker-type with a ZZ Top beard, glared at him. “You want a fuckin’ what?”

  “A vodka martini.” Flynn explained, “Ketel One preferably. Four parts vodka, one part Lillet extra dry vermouth. A twist of lemon peel. Shaken, not stirred.”

  “What kind of vermouth?” The beefy bartender suddenly seemed a tad intimidated.

  “L-i-l-l-e-t. Pronounced Lill-ay. It’s French. From the Bordeaux region.”

  The bartender stared at Flynn, flummoxed. “I think I got some Martini and Rossi.”

  “Then I suppose we will have to make do, won’t we?”

  The bartender nodded, clearly cowed, and started mixing Flynn’s martini.

  Outside in the Mustang, Sancho sat behind the wheel, staring at the battered front door of Tiny’s Tap. He glanced at the open duffel bag packed with cash and then noticed the car keys dangling from the ignition.

  “Fuck,” he said aloud.

  Sancho grabbed the keys and started the car. The old Mustang roared to life. He shifted it into reverse and turned, peering out the rear window. He glanced back at Tiny’s Tap. He knew he should go. Knew he should get the hell out of there. Flynn was probably already dead.

  “Fuck me,” he said as he looked at himself in the rear-view mirror.

  Dulcie sat on a stool, looking glum, swigging from a half-empty bottle of Bud Light. The lacy, red halter top and tight black jeans only served to accentuate her skinny frame. Bored, she glowered at the pool players as the ancient jukebox blared Creedence Clearwater’s “Bad Moon Rising.” The raucous laughter of the biker babes brought her gaze over to the bar where she caught the incongruous sight of James Flynn offering her a grin.

  Dulcie’s mouth dropped open in stunned disbelief. She couldn’t quite connect what she was seeing with reality. Was that actually Flynn? How the hell did he get out of the hospital? How did he find Tiny’s and how did he know Dulcie would be there? Countless unanswered questions collided inside her mind. She was so busy trying to make sense of Flynn’s presence, she forgot she was holding a bottle of beer. It slipped from her grasp and crashed to the floor, catching the attention of her boyfriend.

  Mike Croker was tall and lean and his long muscular arms were covered with tats. An eagle’s head emblazoned with the phrase, “Live Free or Die” decorated his left arm and an adorable cherub wielding a sawed-off shotgun adorned his right. To better show off his tats, he wore a tight, white wife-beater along with baggy Levis, black motorcycle boots, and a look of contempt.

  “What the fuck, Dulcie? You drunk?”

  All the blood drained from Dulcie’s face. She put on a s
mile, but it wasn’t very convincing. “I don’t feel too good.”

  “You look like shit,” Mike said. “You gonna spew?”

  “I think I need a Coke.”

  “Fuckin’ coke whore,” Mike mumbled. His friends laughed as he went back to lining up his shot, squinting through his own cigarette smoke.

  Flynn looked Croker over. He noticed twin lightning bolts tattooed on the back of his neck. Flynn recognized them as the symbol of the Schutzstaffel, Heinrich Himmler’s SS. It was the favorite symbol of neo-Nazis and white supremacists, including the prison gang known as the Aryan Brotherhood.

  Croker missed the shot and Flynn could hear his angry “Motherfucker!” over the music blasting on the jukebox. His two opponents smirked. One was a massive bald guy with a long, skinny, braided goatee. He said something to Mike that Flynn couldn’t hear. The other player, a wiry guy with a face like a weasel, grabbed his stick, and walked around the table. Dulcie tapped Mike’s shoulder and squeezed past him. “You want another beer?” she asked.

  “Get me a pack of Camels.”

  Dulcie nodded and headed for the bar. She sidled up next to James and he offered her his most charming smile.

  “Don’t look at me,” Dulcie whispered.

  The bartender handed Flynn his martini and Dulcie put a five on the bar. “Dom, can I have a pack of Camels, please?”

  The bartender grabbed the five and watched, fascinated, as Flynn took a careful sip of his martini. “Is that okay?” the bartender asked.

  “This has been stirred,” Flynn replied.

  “So?”

  “Stirring bruises the vermouth. I wanted it shaken and strained into a martini glass. This is a highball and not a very clean one.”

  “You kidding me?”

  “Do I look like I’m kidding?”

  Flynn handed the bartender the martini. Chastened, the big guy poured the drink in the sink and started over.

  Dulcie peered sideways at Flynn and whispered, “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “I’m here for you.”

  “Jesus Christ. Are you kidding me? How did you even find me?”

  “I’m very good at what I do.”

  “Listen, you gotta get out of here.”

  “Not without you. We have to find Q.”

  “James, please.”

  Flynn noticed a nasty bruise by Dulcie’s left eye, barely hidden by some heavy makeup. He reached out to touch it and she turned her face away. “Who did this to you?”

  “If my boyfriend sees me talking to you—”

  “Boyfriend?”

  “Yeah. Mike.”

  “Is he the one with the SS tattoo?”

  “He’s the one right here.” Mike stood directly in front of Flynn, holding a cue-stick. “Who the hell are you?”

  “That’s really of no consequence.”

  “What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Dulcie, who the hell is this guy?”

  “How the hell am I supposed to know,” she said nervously.

  “You’re the one who’s having a goddamn conversation with him.”

  The bartender returned with Flynn’s martini and watched as Flynn ignored Mike to take a sip. James gave the bartender a stern look and then smirked. “Much better. Thank you.”

  The bartender beamed.

  Mike slapped the glass out of Flynn’s hand and it crashed to the floor. The bartender looked more appalled than Flynn. “Hey, asswipe,” Mike snarled. “I’m talking to you.”

  “Yes,” Flynn said. “And so far, it’s been a rather dreary conversation.”

  Mike swung the cue stick and James grabbed it with both hands, twisted and turned and flipped Mike right over his back. Eyes wide with surprise, the biker twirled through the air and landed on a table. It collapsed under his weight and Mike hit the floor with his face.

  Mike’s biker buddies looked astounded. They slowly moved forward, surrounding Flynn on all sides. Dulcie was terrified, but James calmly took her by the hand and addressed the bikers with complete confidence. “The young lady and I will be leaving now.”

  The bikers all looked at each other. Mike’s massive bald bud, the guy with the braided goatee, blocked Flynn’s path. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

  “The name is James. James—”

  “Fucker!” Mike grunted. He grabbed the edge of the bar and pulled himself to his feet. A cut on his forehead dripped blood into his eyes and down his face. “You’re fucking dead!” Mike slid a huge Marine combat knife out of a sheath on his belt.

  Instantly, Flynn had the .44 in his hand. No one saw him pull it. It was just there as if it materialized out of thin air.

  All the bikers took a half a step back, except for Mike who glared at the pistol in Flynn’s fist. “What the fuck? I got a gun just like that.”

  “Yes, but you don’t have it with you, do you? You also don’t have a license to kill. I do and I promise you, I will use it without compunction.”

  “Without what?”

  One of the bikers swung a pool clue at Flynn’s head. He smoothly ducked and avoided the blade of Mike’s combat knife by diving and doing a perfect shoulder roll. He came up shooting.

  Click.

  He pulled the trigger again.

  Click. Click. Click. Click.

  The bikers all grinned.

  James Flynn flew out the front door and bounced down the three cement steps that led to the dusty gravel parking lot. He was followed by Mike and six other bikers who all continued to kick the crap out of him.

  Flynn tasted the hot coppery tang of his own blood as he tried to focus through the pain exploding in his brain. Blood streamed from his nose into his mouth and all over his tuxedo shirt. The cold gravel cut into his hands and knees as Mike slammed his boot into Flynn’s ribs, knocking the air out of his lungs. He tried to get himself upright, but the agony paralyzed him and his arms kept collapsing. His face smashed into the gravel and the smell of blood and dirt filled his nostrils.

  All the yelling and laughing, cursing and grunting faded away as Flynn retreated inside himself. He folded into a fetal position as boots slammed him from all sides. The sideways world started to blur as he searched the parking lot for Sancho’s Mustang.

  But it was gone and so was Sancho.

  Flynn felt a pang of disappointment that was even sharper than the motorcycle boots bruising his ribs. He was sure his loyal sidekick would be there.

  The squeal of tires interrupted his sad and painful reverie. Flynn looked towards the sound to see Sancho’s Mustang tearing across the parking lot, kicking up gravel. The hope turned to apprehension as he realized the car was careening right for him. The bikers panicked and scattered—the car missed Flynn by inches, crashing into the Harleys. The bikes went down like dominos, one after another, chrome twisting, glass shattering.

  Flynn used every ounce of strength to push himself up on his hands and then his knees and then his feet. He limped for the Mustang, wincing as electrical jolts of pain shot through his ribs and lower back. His head felt like a giant balloon, numb and swollen.

  The Mustang skidded to a stop, kicking up dust. Sancho waved him on. He tried to move faster, but he didn’t have any control over his limbs. Sancho watched with alarm as Mike and six of his vicious compadres closed in. They were almost upon him, their beer bellies shaking as they hurried to catch Flynn.

  “Come on man!” Sancho screamed and Flynn, just like Sancho did earlier that day, dove through the Mustang’s rear passenger window.

  Flynn’s lower half hung out as Sancho hit the gas. The tires spun, kicking up a rooster tail of gravel and dust that flew into the eyes of Mike and the other Slaves of Satan.

  The Mustang sped out of the parking lot, into the street, nearly colliding with a garbage truck. Sancho cut a hard right, fishtailing, squealing, rocketing south down Lankershim. He glanced in the rear-view mirror to see the angry mob of bikers growing smaller and smaller. He looked at Flynn and winced. Blood and dirt covered his face and t
orn tuxedo. Flynn licked his split lip and tasted blood. His right eye was swollen and already turning purple.

  “They beat the crap out of you, dude. Look at you. Jesus…”

  James glared at Sancho. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Whatever, man.”

  “Did you take the bullets out of the gun?”

  Suddenly, Sancho felt extremely sheepish. “Maybe,” was all he would admit to. Flynn glared at him and Sancho tried to explain. “I didn’t want anybody getting hurt.”

  Mike and the other bikers were hacked, bent, and bummed as they stared at their crushed and mangled Harleys. The door to Tiny’s creaked open and Mike glanced over to see Dulcie step into the light, clearly happy as hell that Flynn was gone and presumably still alive. When she noticed the look on Mike’s face, however, she realized that she probably wasn’t going to be so lucky.

  Chapter Nine

  There were no hills in North Hills. It was in the flattest part of the San Fernando Valley, next to Panorama City, which offered no panoramas, but did have one of the largest GM plants in the world before it was shut down in 1989. North Hills wasn’t known as North Hills until 1992. Previously, the area next to the 405 freeway was called Sepulveda, named after one of the founding families of Los Angeles. Gang activity, drug dealing and prostitution gave Sepulveda a bad name, so local boosters decided they could improve real estate values by changing the name to something hopeful and scenic like North Hills. It didn’t exactly work.

  As they cruised down Sepulveda Boulevard, Sancho watched as Flynn checked out his neighborhood. Certain blocks north of Roscoe were considered gang territory; so dangerous that the police rarely patrolled the area. They just blocked the streets off so there was only one way in and one way out. Much of the area was severely damaged by the Northridge earthquake of 1994. Many of the apartment buildings damaged by the quake were abandoned by their owners. The properties were taken over by squatters and prostitutes, gang bangers and crack addicts. The buildings that weren’t abandoned had dirt cheap rents. Often entire immigrant families lived in one-bedroom apartments.

  Sancho called one such building home. He rented a single on the second floor of a twenty-two-unit apartment building. There was parking available below, but since the last earthquake few tenants actually ventured down there. The lights were gone and at night the homeless claimed the area as their own. Sancho was the only resident who continued to use his space. He wasn’t about to leave his Mustang on the street.