Lomita For Ever

by Trevor Eve

  ‘You know where we were sitting, where I always sit, just look at your seating chart, for Christ’s sake!’

  The voice continued on the phone. Ever was now virtually upon the car and Mr Lorken turned in reaction to the approaching 6’ 2”.

  ‘What the fuck!’

  It was flat aggression from Mr Lorken.

  Lomita almost at a scream.

  ‘Found it! Got it here!’

  He turned back to Lomita, distracted, with an exhale.

  ‘Thank God.’

  They were just completed, those two words. Her hand went inside the Fendi bag, feeling for the grip and grasping the handle of a Beretta 70. She released two bullets into Mr Lorken’s chest: they managed over the short distance to revolve inside the body, increasing the damage, the bag was pressed tight to his body, muffling the sound, the impact was instant, unmissable and fatal.

  The thick leather seat took the rest of the hit as one of the bullets passed through. The other was lodged in the spine, having made contact on the vertical moment of its revolution.

  The last word he had spoken was ‘God’.

  Let’s hope he heard.

  Lomita’s heart literally skipped a beat but did not go back to its sinus rhythm, it was constantly skipping, a supraventricular tachycardia kind of attack; her atrial fibrillation had kicked in. And with this misbehaving heart she scrambled for the door, reached the handle and cracked the door open. Ever rushed round to her side of the car, completed the opening of the door and helped her out, carrying her, off the ground, to his waiting Honda. A woman speed-walked past with a sun visor, headphones, track suit and trainers, apparently oblivious to what was going on. Without a second to calculate the situation he turned the car around and went east on Carmelita; without thought but instinctive panic got the hell out of town as fast as grabbing no attention would take him. Up Oakhurst Drive, with the briefest of a split second that registered the possibility of going to her home for tablets: ignoring her plea, he went south on Doheny, all the way down to Olympic, travelling east towards Koreatown.

  Lomita was in a state of hysterics, sobbing, shouting and screaming: it was all incoherent and his ears weren’t tuned to hear. Or tuned to her.

  *

  Lomita had been a long-term sufferer of atrial fibrillation.

  Controlling the condition with f lecainide tablets on a daily basis to regulate the rhythm, keep it in sinus rhythm: but this trauma had overridden the control that the tablets gave , resulting in a non-sinus rhythm phase. Lomita was panicked and breathless. The blood was not being pumped out of the atria and c ould pool there, just sit there, given up, relieved of responsibility, making its statement that it s job was done . The downside of this non-emptying atria, at least its irregularity, was the potential for clotting and therefore a stroke. Thus things were not at this moment going well for Lomita . S he hadn ’ t had an AF attack for a number of years and its return produced its own shock . She needed some tablets. Beta b lockers or more f lecainide.

  *

  ‘Why did you do that?’

  ‘You made me. I did it for you. You don’t, you understand, kill me now, kill me please. I can’t live with it. I don’t want to anymore. Ever please.’

  What she wanted him to do with her cries, he had no idea; he was too isolated in his own emotion to take time to wonder.

  This continued all the way through the Mid-City and started to die, the noise, from pure exhaustion, as they were crossing Western; he took a left up on to 8th Street in an attempt to find his patch of anonymous land.

  Had he made Lomita do this?

  Ever the bringer of all that is bad and negative into people’s lives. The soulless one. Ever. Forever doing the same thing: consistent in the wrong.

  Ever had had no gun with him – he hadn’t been carrying a gun – what had been his intention towards Mr Lorken? He was unable to think in straight coherent logic as Lomita was mixing her thoughts with his, he couldn’t work out which were his and which were hers, so long had the idea of this kill been in his mind. But he had been walking towards Mr Lorken in his car without his Glock 17. No gun.

  She was now slumped, the hysterics had calmed but the emotion had the same power, it was just the machinery that pumped out the expression was weakening, stumbling, breaking down, running out of gas.

  He got to 8th Street where the 110 appeared up on its stilts, took a right down South Union Street and then he remembered the left that should bring him to his haven; his piece of peace and solitude. The isolation patch. He stopped the car in an attempt to gather his bearings.

  He could see the tower of the Ritz Carlton, it should be directly beneath, just this side of the 110; he started to move forward and there it was on his left behind the wire, he had turned down a street, but one street too early, unable to access the entrance.

  He doubled back and went one beyond, there he was: there were the blue tarpaulins of the homeless camps and there was his gate to solitude. The same as it was on his last trip; minus the truck.

  No one cared about this patch, no one looked after this patch, even the birds looked disillusioned, wandering with no real attempt at finding any sustenance, a bird boredom had taken wing. Flying seemed a waste, they hopped a few feet at a time in a vague attempt at escape, probably thinking death to be an acceptable alternative to this existence. Ever was transferring; he stopped.

  He parked in the middle of the wasteland as accurately as he could assess. He blanked his mental process and breathed deep. Five times until he started to feel a dizziness.

  Had he made Lomita do this?

  Her sobs were now pathetic whimpers; he got her out of the car, found the alley at the side of the land, he knew that through to the other side was the Isis Adelphia and Milagro’s Market. He picked her up, one arm under her legs another round her back, cupping his hand under her arm, she struggled to keep her head up. She was aware of what was happening, making noises that he couldn’t determine as words.

  ‘We need to get Manita down here.’

  Ever was saying on repeat, waiting for acknowledgement of reception of the message. Then she formulated words.

  ‘Where are we?’

  ‘Have you got your phone?’

  ‘No, I left it in the restaurant. I told him.’

  What the fuck. Her bag was back in the car. Not in the restaurant, please.

  ‘I told him.’

  She repeated, fixated on the false truth.

  They turned, rather he did, she had no choice but to follow the motion of his arms, and then back to the car with the hope of the Fendi bag within.

  The bag was burnt through with a hole and no blood. Browned at the edges. It occurred even at that moment that that was a strange thing. Perhaps the brown was dried blood.

  He opened it and there was her phone, positioned alongside her gun. Both were inert and incapable. Dependant on operation: the constitutional defence.

  ‘It’s here, thank God, it’s here.’

  ‘No, but I told him I had left it.’

  There was confusion, he just felt relief.

  ‘We have it. We’ve got it.’

  He was now, at as fast a pace as he could manage, heading back to the Isis.

  ‘We need to phone Manita.’

  ‘Where are we?’

  ‘Manita.’

  The conversation was bullet point, appropriate term, just the words that needed to go in. Like the bullet.

  ‘I will.’

  They burst through the confines of the alley and emerged facing the Isis Adelphia Hotel. On the other side of the street. They went through the beaded curtains, he had now released her from his grip and was supporting her with his arm around her waist. The beads made their xylophonic ripple of warning and a lady came out from behind another set of multi-coloured beads to take up position behind a desk. She was Chinese. So was the desk, with the ornate carving of dragons forming the base.

  ‘Do you have room?’

  ‘A room?’
/>   ‘Yes.’

  ‘One or two?’

  She said taking in Lomita.

  ‘One is fine.’

  ‘How many night?’

  ‘Wait a second please.’

  Lomita was now sitting on the one chair in the lobby. A bamboo rocker. He presumed unless there was interest in a room she would not be allowed to continue this small luxury. He spoke close to her ear.

  ‘Call Manita and tell her to come and get us.’

  ‘And we’ll go to Mexico.’

  Added Lomita. She took out her phone and dialled Manita; she could see the face of the Chinese woman looking at her, waiting for the answer of how many nights.

  She couldn’t think.

  ‘Just the one room. One night.’

  Confirmed Ever.

  He passed a hundred-dollar bill across the desk.

  ‘A hundred-twenty-five dollar.’

  Came the response, he dug for further money, hearing the muffled sound of a phone ringing and being answered.

  ‘Hola Manita, escucha atentamente y cuidadosamente. Vamos a México. Solo empaca las cosas médicas y ven a recogernos. Ever está conmigo. Ven rápido por favor. Where are we?’

  She put her hand over the phone to speak to Ever, although it wasn’t a secret. Ever lent into her ear and told her.

  ‘En la esquina de 8th Street y South Union Street. El hotel se llama la Isis de Adelphia. ¿Adelphia con ‘ph’?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Said Ever, surprised at his subliminal understanding of the language.

  ‘Lleva los pasaportes.’

  ‘Where is yours?’

  ‘US and UK, bedside drawer.’

  ‘Los dos están en el cajón al lado de la cama. Y las pastillas, Manita, para mi corazón. Pon la dirección del hotel en el GPS. Llámame con cualquier problema. Ven tan rápido como puedas. Gracias. Nos vemos pronto.’

  The Chinese woman was no wiser: Ever was only a bit more so.

  He now addressed the Chinese lady.

  ‘I’m going to get the luggage while my friend here can just get her breath back. It’ll take me a few minutes, do you have some water perhaps for her?’

  ‘I can take her to the room.’

  Oh God is nothing simple?

  ‘No, won’t be long.’

  Working out that Manita would be at least forty minutes. Maybe that wasn’t such a bad idea.

  ‘OK, to the room. And some water. Please.’

  Ever and Lomita and the Chinese lady walked to the tiny collapsible metal-gated door of the elevator that did not look capable of carrying its ambitious load. It was, according to the notice inside, a four-person maximum. What size people crossed one of Ever’s lobes, not sinking too deep as a thought. There was no room in brain or elevator.

  Only one floor.

  Fine.

  It clanked and groaned with complaint to the one floor. God help the trip to the second. Ever made a note to walk down. And directly opposite was the room.

  One bed, one window, one chair and a bathroom down the hall. Chinese scroll calligraphy hung on the walls. Twice.

  ‘Thank you. Perfect.’

  Confirmed Ever.

  Lomita was reluctant for him to go; the Chinese lady exited, giving him the key.

  ‘Ten minutes. I’ll be back in ten minutes.’

  Lomita clutched him and he could feel the tremor that wasn’t essential. At this point he was proud of his composure. But it was superficial as his bowels gurgled and his head pained. Lomita sat struggling with her heart that was not telling her the beat of life was inevitable and straightforward. It wasn’t her drum she was beating to.

  He ran down the stairs and out of the Isis Hotel, going immediately into the Milagro’s store. Purchasing calm from the universe.

  ‘A box of matches please.’

  He handed over a dollar bill.

  ‘Oh and a bottle of water.’

  ‘Still?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In the refrigerator behind you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Three fifty-five.’

  He pulled out a five-dollar bill.

  Another thanks, and left.

  *

  Now he was running towards the car.

  On entering the haven, it was there, anonymously, he looked around for any old dry material. Other than plastic, concrete and metal he could find nothing that would absorb. He thought of the bomb and his mother, he remembered laying the trail that had been so effective. No gunpowder.

  He drank the water and took off his socks. He opened the trunk of the car and pulled out the can of petrol. And poured it on the seats and floor of the car, then onto a sock and into the water bottle. The seats were vinyl and wouldn’t absorb so he opened the petrol cap and poured some petrol all around the opening, and with shaking hands opened the matchbox, most of the matches fell out; he rammed the end of the soaked sock into the bottle and lit it. And then, when convinced it wasn’t going to go out, threw it into the open back door of the car.

  And ran.

  Waiting for the boom.

  He thought, there would be a boom, wouldn’t there? He turned, hearing no boom. Twenty feet away and nobody around, nobody carrying their washing, he could see the haze of heat as the inside of the car was on fire, the petrol cap was open and the fire was grasping at the fumes outside on the paint work. Then came the boom. The petrol tank released its pressure, like the sparklet, the car became a burning furnace; he was running like a madman for the alley exit.

  He stopped and turned for one last look, his Honda EX V6 sedan in dull red was being destroyed before his eyes. A magnificent sight. Fuzzy with the shimmering, adding to the heat of the day. The squealing noise as the metal contorted in pain, the plastic loving and lapping up the flames with a fizz. Burning in a frenzy. It was going to be a shell and become even less memorable than it was before.

  He could have cooked some potatoes there.

  It was sad that it was burning on gravel and caked mud.

  Nothing to spread the fire.

  Lomita – ten maybe fifteen minutes must have gone.

  What had Lomita done? He had made her, hadn’t he?

  It was his fault again. He imagined himself sitting in the front of the burning Honda with the flames caressing him, paining and searing at his flesh. Would he burn in an explosive way or just cook slowly like a piece of pork? Nearest thing to human flesh isn’t? He should have done that, he should have sat in the front seat of the car while it was burning and joined it in the smoke.

  The meat and no potato.

  He ran back the long way around, looking to see if anyone was paying any attention to him, or following him.

  *

  The Isis Adelphia’s beads rippled again and he didn’t wait for the Chinese lady.

  Double-stepping the stairs, he stopped on the fourth step and returned to the lobby. The television hanging to the right of the Chinese desk was showing pictures, with the sound down, of an electric blue Rolls-Royce Dawn Drophead coupé, parked on a street in Beverly Hills, swarming with police and forensic-suited investigators. He turned around, put his head through the beads and threw up. Breathed in, escaped the trailing beads and ran past the now emerged Chinese lady, double-stepped again and opened the door to the room.

  Lomita was sitting in the chair looking like death. Well she was the bringer of death. The harbinger, the grim reaper, she did it. He didn’t want to enter into any discussion about what had happened: keep it simple.

  ‘Where’s Manita?’

  Lomita without expression went to the bag and picked up her phone; had a freeze moment as the sight of the gun took her back; she pressed the name Manita on the recent call page.

  ‘¿Cuánto tiempo hasta que llegues?’

  She pressed the red button.

  ‘Thirty minutes.’

  Exhaled Lomita.

  ‘She’ll be another thirty minutes.’

  Another thirty minutes. Had all communication broken down, wha
t do you say now? Did either of them want to speak? Could Lomita speak? She looked like she had lived every second of her seventy-six years, the poor soul. What could he possibly say to her?

  ‘Did you get your water?’

  Was the best.

  ‘Yes, thank you. What do we do with the gun?’

  She asked and it had to be said.

  ‘In the bag. It’s still in the bag.’

  ‘Leave it in the bag.’

  Ever said for no reason other than he had no idea what to do with it. But it sounded authoritative. And then after the longest exhalation that her tiny lungs could expel, she replenished with some innocent air.

  ‘What have I done to us Ever? What have I done?’

  This, thought Ever in a moment of intense cruelty, could be the record that played around and around forever. The stuck record. At least for the next thirty minutes.

  ‘Let’s get on the road and we can talk.’

  ‘In front of Manita? I don’t think so.’

  ‘Talk now, is that what we should do? What do we do then?’

  ‘We go to Mexico and wait. They will find me. They have connections to me. I was the last person seen with him. I had lunch with him. They will at least find me, to ask me questions. At the very least.’

  *

  Ever couldn’t begin to comprehend life now.

  Certainly a massive traumatic situation does wonders for brain focus and gyroscopic balancing. Survival becomes different, it means different things. It’s not about being happy or sad, it’s about survival. It’s how he supposed you would feel in a war zone. You know you’re not happy, so you go beyond that, to just surviving; there are no demands on the brain other than to stay clear enough to fend off the beast. To live. He thought they should call Manita again or go and wait in the lobby. Lomita suggested the latter, give it five, and go down. The phone rang it was Manita.