Colorado Boulevard

by Phoef Sutton

  “Is that what this situation is? Delicate?”

  “What would you call it?”

  “I’d call it fucked up,” she said. “And you don’t have an exactly unbiased opinion of the police, do you? You haven’t always been on the right side of the law, remember?”

  “That’s how I know about them.”

  “So if we don’t call the police, what do we do?”

  “I have to talk to Noel.”

  “Oh, he doesn’t know anything.”

  “Well, we can’t just wait for them to call back and for your father to tell them to fuck off.”

  “Oh, he didn’t mean that,” she said. “That’s just the stroke talking. He’ll change his mind. I’ll work on him.”

  “You better do it quickly. I don’t know how much time we have.”

  Just then, the door to the bedroom opened. Samantha stood looking at them from the hallway. Her expression was odd. “We just got a UPS delivery,” she said. Then nothing.

  “Okay,” Angela said.

  Samantha still stood there.

  “What was it?” Crush asked.

  “It was a bomb,” Samantha said.

  “You’d better call the police now,” Crush said as he ran to the window, flung it open, and jumped out.

  CHAPTER NINE

  There were a lot of things Crush could have clarified before he took that jump. He could have found out whether or not the bomb was live. He could have found out how Samantha knew that what had been delivered was a bomb. He could have asked who the bomb was from. He could have found out whether or not they were all in danger of being blown sky high.

  But when he glanced out the window and saw the UPS truck driving down the long driveway, his instincts kicked in. He leapt out the second-story window and hit the ground running. Taking off for his Camaro, he flung the door open, climbed in, slid the key into the ignition, heard the engine roar to life, and peeled off down the driveway.

  Speeding around the bend, he could see the UPS truck heading out through the gate. The hedge started to slide closed behind it, and Crush floored the ZL1. If he timed it right he could make it through before the gate slid shut. He jammed his foot on the accelerator and shifted gears. Too late. And he was too close to brake. Best to just crash on through.

  At the last minute, the gate started to slide open again. It just scraped the side of the door of the Camaro as Crush shot on through it and out onto San Rafael Avenue. But which way did the truck go? He screeched to a halt and looked both ways.

  The truck was heading off to the left. Crush spun the wheel and tore off after it. If he’d been wondering whether it was just an innocent delivery truck on its rounds, the way it sped up as he approached told him all he needed to know. As the distance between them diminished, he saw that the truck didn’t have a license plate and that the shade of brown was a little off for a UPS truck.

  He ran over a speed bump and his head hit the ceiling of the Camaro. The truck hit another one and nearly flew off the road. These wealthy neighborhood streets had speed bumps placed at regular intervals to stop the hoi polloi from racing through them. Another one and Crush felt jarred to the bone.

  Even so, he was overtaking the truck easily when it took a hard left and went down a twisting, turning lane that was thankfully free of the asphalt bumps. Crush followed the truck, scraping against the shrubbery that lined the road.

  Bouncing off the curb, he came up alongside the truck. Crush didn’t want to hurt the paint job on the Camaro—it had been so hard to get just that shade of green—but he did what he had to do. He slammed into the truck, and it ran off the road.

  But the driver knew what he was doing. He tore across the front lawn of the next big house and made it back onto the street ahead of Crush. When Crush tried to edge him out, the truck pulled onto a tiny, two-lane bridge that crossed the Arroyo. Crush slammed on the brakes just before he went off into the abyss.

  He swerved onto the bridge close behind the truck. The Arroyo opened up beneath them like a river gorge minus the river. The bridge curved until it reached Arroyo Boulevard on the other side.

  The neighborhood on this side of the ravine was merely rich instead of super-rich. The faux-UPS truck went barreling onto the lawn of a big house, caromed across it and back onto the street, traveling north. Crush hit the brakes, spinning left. He followed the truck as they raced down the wooded street that wound alongside the Arroyo, taking sharp turns with the unpredictable topography of the landscape. Crush rammed the truck from behind and sent it careening into the guardrail. The truck slid across an intersection and ground to a halt, sparks flying from the guardrail.

  Running through a stop sign, Crush was getting ready to close in on the truck when a white SUV suddenly barreled into the intersection. Crush cursed the vehicle, though he had to admit the driver had the right of way, and spun the wheel to the left, hitting the brakes. His car hurtled off the road, colliding with a sweet gum tree.

  If the Camaro had had an airbag it would have deployed. As it was, Crush’s chin cracked against the steering wheel, causing him to bite down on his cheek, filling his mouth with blood. When he lifted his head off the wheel to look out the windshield, his neck felt sore and tight. He heard a thudding sound and, with some difficulty, he turned and looked to his left. The driver of the SUV, an angry suburban mom with a shag haircut, hammered on his window with her fist.

  He cranked down the window. “What the hell did you think you were doing?” she yelled. “Didn’t you see that stop sign? I have kids in my car!” Crush opened his mouth to reply and blood flowed out of it down his chin. The mom gasped. “Holy crap! Are you okay? Should I call 911?”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Crush saw the brown truck back off from the guardrail and drive away. “No, I’m fine,” he said, spitting blood on the mom’s blouse. “I just bit my cheek. No problem.” He tried to start the car, but it just growled angrily and then sputtered out.

  “Really, you need help,” she said, wiping the blood from her arm, “I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

  “Why should you be sorry? Your car’s okay, right? Just go. I’ll be fine.”

  “I should wait. I should call 911.”

  “Don’t you have to be somewhere? With your kids?”

  “Hockey practice, but….”

  “Hockey practice, very important. Don’t want to be late for that. I’ll be fine. Look, I’m calling 911 myself.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket and made as if to enter a number.

  “Well, okay. But I don’t feel good about this.”

  “You should feel good, you should feel great. I’m fine, really. Go, take care of your kids.”

  She got in her SUV and drove off, looking back at him as she went. Crush took a deep breath, slipped his phone back in his pocket, and tried to start the Camaro again. It didn’t even make a grinding noise this time. He opened the door to go take a look, but getting out of the car wasn’t as easy as he thought it would be. He was stiff and achy and he almost lost his balance. He had to hang onto the door to keep from falling down.

  The Camaro didn’t look too bad. The front grill was a little crumpled, but that could easily be fixed. He made his way over to the hood and tried to lift it, but the latch was jammed shut and he didn’t feel like he had the strength to wrench it open. Actually, he really didn’t feel very good at all. Maybe I should call 911, he thought with a laugh. Then he wondered if he should be joking about it.

  Well, he wasn’t very far from the Zerbe house. He could walk back there and call a tow truck. And maybe take a couple of aspirin. His head really was hurting.

  He stumbled once on a root, caught himself, and then walked back to the bridge. He stopped to read the sign and learned that it was called the La Loma Bridge. He thought that was a very pretty name for a bridge. He paused in the middle to look down at the Arroyo. It was really quite a view. The steep slopes covered with brush and trees; a wilderness carved into the middle of a suburban neighborhood. Not too far away
, he could see the magnificent Colorado Street Bridge and beyond that the 134 heavy with traffic. It was framed so perfectly by the valley that it looked like a viewfinder card clicking into place. He sat down on the bridge to take it in.

  Then he thought he’d sleep for a little bit. Why not? Just for a little bit. He could use it. He’d feel better afterward.

  Caleb Rush Zerbe. Was that his name now, he wondered? It was a simple question but he hated to have to ask anyone. Why wouldn’t somebody just tell him?

  He hated his new bed, too. This was his first night in the East Wing and it was too damned quiet here and the mattress was too damned soft. There were too many blankets and sheets and quilts and who-knew-what-they-were-called. The pillows were also too soft. He checked his watch and saw that it was one-thirty. Fuck, the night was barely started. He threw off the covers, grabbed one pillow, and curled up on the floor. That was better. The carpet was as soft as most beds he’d slept on.

  After a few hours of restless sleep, he woke up when he felt his internal warning system go off. He rolled onto his knees, ready to spring up and attack. He was all too used to late-night intrusions. They came with his mother’s lifestyle.

  He peered over the bed. There were two boys standing in the doorway. They looked to be about sixteen or so and they also looked just alike. A pair of twins in identical powder-blue pajamas standing there, backlit in the hallway light. He’d seen enough horror movies to know this wasn’t a good sign.

  “He’s not there,” said one twin.

  “Where did he go?” asked the other.

  “Maybe he’s robbing the house,” the first one said.

  Behind them, two taller girls, maybe a year or two older than the boys, came into view. A blonde and a brunette. “He’s there,” the blonde said. She was wearing a Sleater-Kinney T-shirt and a pair of leggings that showed off her curves.

  “Look,” said the brunette, who was dressed in an oversize T-shirt with a reproduction of an old French poster with a black cat on it. “He’s on the floor behind the bed.”

  Crush took that as his cue to stand up.

  “What were you doing on the floor?” the brunette asked.

  “Maybe he likes to sleep that way,” the blonde said. “Like an animal. That’s why he likes to sleep naked, too.”

  Crush wasn’t embarrassed by his nudity. If somebody broke into your room, they deserved what they got. “You want something?” he asked.

  “Hi,” the second twin said. “We just wanted to meet you.”

  “Okay, you’ve met me.”

  “I’m K.C.,” the second twin continued. “This is Noel, my brother, and this is Angela, my sister,” he said, pointing to the blonde.

  “All right,” Crush said.

  “And I’m Renee,” the brunette said.

  Crush looked at Renee. He liked looking at her. “A sleepover friend?”

  Renee smirked. “Sort of. I’m their cousin.”

  “Which makes her your cousin, I guess,” said K.C.

  “Hello, Cousin,” Renee said to Crush with a sly smile.

  Angela noticed the interaction between Crush and Renee. She didn’t seem to like it. “You’re Cable, right?” asked Angela.

  “Caleb,” he corrected her. “But I think you knew that.”

  “I did,” she said with a smirk. “You want to cover up, Caleb?”

  “Yeah,” Renee said. “There are impressionable boys present.”

  Crush lifted one of the sheets up to cover his waist. “That better?”

  “Yes,” Angela said.

  “For them,” Renee said.

  “You didn’t join us for dinner,” said Noel.

  “I didn’t want to,” Crush said.

  “Why didn’t you?” said K.C. He seemed like the nice one, Crush thought. Noel seemed like a nosy little kid. And Angela seemed like she wanted him out of there. Renee seemed amused by the whole scene.

  “Because I didn’t want to meet you,” Crush said.

  “That’s a straightforward answer,” Renee said.

  “We met your mother,” K.C. said.

  “That’s nice,” Crush said.

  “Angela thinks she’s a prostitute,” Noel said.

  Crush felt his fingers squeezing to form a fist. “Is that right?” Crush asked.

  “It’s just a feeling I have,” Angela said.

  Crush wanted to knock the smirk right off her face. But he knew that was just what Angela wanted him to do. Any excuse to get Crush and his mother thrown out of the house. He wouldn’t play her game.

  “She’s not a prostitute,” Crush said, calmly.

  “My mistake,” Angela said. “Prostitutes fuck for money, don’t they? They don’t marry for it.”

  Crush controlled himself. He checked his watch. “Okay, we’ve met. It’s three-thirty in the morning. Can I go back to sleep?”

  “We don’t like your mother,” Noel said. “We don’t want her to be married to our father.”

  “I’ll tell her you said that. Now get out of my bedroom.”

  “It’s not your bedroom,” Angela said. “It’s the guest room. And you’re not a guest.”

  “Then what am I?”

  “You’re an intruder,” Angela said. “And we’re going to get rid of you.”

  “That’s nice,” Crush replied. “Can I get some sleep?”

  “Sure,” Angela said. “Get back on the floor like a dog.”

  “I will,” Crush said, dropping the sheet and lying back down on the rug. “Turn out the light in the hallway, will you?”

  “Good night, Caleb,” he heard K.C. say.

  “Don’t say that,” Noel said. “He’s the enemy.”

  “Sorry,” K.C. said.

  “’Bye, Caleb,” said Renee. “For now.”

  After the rest of them were gone, Angela walked around the bed and looked down at Crush. “They’re stupid. I’m not. You and your mother better clear out of here. If you know what’s good for you.”

  “Well, that’s the thing,” Crush said, closing his eyes. “We’ve never known what’s good for us.”

  “Caleb?” Angela was saying. But it wasn’t the Angela of his memories, this was the grown-up Angela in her thirties. She was standing on the La Loma Bridge calling his name. It was kind of annoying.

  “What do you want?” Crush asked.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “You’re passed out in the middle of the road. In the middle of a bridge.”

  “I’m just napping.”

  “In the middle of the road. In the middle of a bridge. Come on, get up.” She helped him to his feet and led him to a Bentley Mulsanne that was parked on the bridge.

  “Nice car,” he said.

  “Yeah, it’s Dad’s. Where’s your car?”

  “I had a little accident.”

  “I thought so.”

  “How come?”

  “You’re covered in blood.”

  “Oh, that. That’s nothing. I just bit my cheek. You gotta help me get the car towed.”

  She put him in the passenger seat and got behind the wheel.

  “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “Back to the house,” she said as she turned the sedan around.

  Crush sat forward suddenly, remembering. “The bomb. What did you do about the bomb?”

  “It’s being taken care of. Look, I think you’ve got a concussion. I think we ought to get you to a doctor.”

  “A concussion?” He touched his head. “Yeah, it could be. It feels like that.”

  “Have you had concussions before?”

  Crush laughed. “Yes.” That was a really funny question. He laughed harder.

  “Okay, you’re freaking me out, Crush,” she said.

  “It’s just that I was a Marine. In Iraq. Concussions kind of go with the territory.”

  “How many?”

  “How many what?”

  “How many concussions have you had?”
r />   “Oh.” He tried to tally them up on his fingers but he lost count. “A lot,” he said.

  “They’re not good for the brain,” she said. “There’ve been studies.”

  “I don’t read studies. And I don’t need a doctor. I’ll be fine.”

  “Are you sure? Do you suffer from depression?”

  “Only when people ask me questions like that.”

  They’d reached the house. Angela rolled down the window and pressed the magic button in the hedge. The gate began to roll aside.

  “Open sesame,” Crush said, and he laughed again.

  “See?” she said. “That’s not a normal laugh.”

  “At least I’m not depressed.”

  They’d pulled halfway up the drive when Angela stopped the car and placed a call on her cell phone. “Hey? Is the coast clear?” she asked whoever was on the other end. While she waited for an answer, Crush opened his door and got out. “Wait,” she said. “I don’t know if it’s okay to….”

  But Crush didn’t need to wait to hear what she had to say. He knew she was going to tell him that the bomb had been defused or it hadn’t and either way he was going to find out. He walked around the bend until the house came into view. There was a large plastic bucket in the middle of the cactus garden. A figure in a bomb-disposal outfit was bending over it, looking like an astronaut from a fifties sci-fi movie. The occupant of the heavy suit raised a hand to Crush, telling him to stop.

  “Come on, Donleavy,” Crush said. “Set that bomb off. I got things to do.”

  Victoria Donleavy gave Crush the middle finger of her heavily gloved right hand. Donleavy was the founder and CEO of Tigon Security, and Crush’s former boss from his days as a bodyguard. A retired lieutenant from the Los Angeles Police Department and a retired MP from the Army, Donleavy knew a thing or two about law enforcement, security, and smart-ass subordinates.

  She was appalled to see Crush keep on walking toward her, as if there weren’t an unexploded bomb right there in front of her. Crush just kept ignoring her as she waved her arms at him like a crazed grade-school crossing guard. Behind her, he could see a couple of other guys back by the house, watching her. He recognized them as Stegner and Kagan, two of Donleavy’s favorite operatives. They were close to danger, but Donleavy was in the middle of it. That was what Crush liked about her.