Blood Money

by Doug Richardson

  She had dreamt that she had fallen asleep on the couch of her former Simi Valley house. The bigger one with the pool and the Suburban in the driveway. Only once she had climbed into the Suburban, day had flipped to night as if she had flipped a switch, and the interior of the Chevy Suburban looked an awful lot like a yellow cab. And there she was again, the dream having turned to a nightmare driven from recent memory. The cab was struck from behind. It spun across three rain-slicked lanes and impacted with the divider.

  Then snap. Gonzo woke, her clenched jaw aching where it had once been wired and screwed in place. Yet despite the pain, she was as relieved as much by waking than the realization that the terrible memory was in the past. She was safe in the cozy South Pasadena duplex she had bought after getting out from under the anvil of her Simi Valley dream home.

  In her half-dreamy haze she was able to settle herself by picturing the humble clapboard property much the way she had first seen it. Grandmotherly, with untended rose bushes and vines of blooming wisteria. And though the domicile dated back to the thirties, it was freshly painted in a rusty red with white shutters and an actual picket fence to match. The only downside was that the front door was a mere five paces from a street that served as an artery for commuter traffic. Hardly ideal. But once Gonzo had seen the knotty pine interior—all original—the manageable size, the smallish, but private backyard, not to mention the attached rental property, the numbers added up.

  The new home would also be four easy blocks from Travis’ new school, Madison Prep, a specialty academy for children with both learning and developmental disabilities. The school was a godsend for Travis who, without the special attention, would have drowned at his former alma mater, Simi Canyons. Nor would the boy be teased anymore about the facial tics over which he had zero control. That’s because nearly every child at Madison Prep was a misfit in one way or another.

  If only the tuition wasn’t so damned steep.

  The gray light of dawn was just beginning to flood the small den. Gonzo’s eyes tried and failed to focus on the old plaster ceiling stained latte brown by the chain-smoking former owner, a ninety-one-year-old great grandmother with an addict’s affection for bourbon and unfiltered Camels. In the end, lung cancer hadn’t laid a finger on her. But liver disease had.

  Gonzo stretched and twisted. The sliding glass door a mere two feet from the top of her head led to a weedy backyard. What grass hadn’t been torn up by the dog was either pee-stained or in tufts of Marathon choked with crabgrass. Again, Gonzo tried to twist her corneas into giving up some detail. But her vision was still cloudy from the Tylenol PM. She had gone for overkill with four caplets, double her usual dose.

  “Why try?” she might’ve heard herself mumble, curling up around a velour pillow smattered with dog hair. She let her eyes close and wondered if she’d get sucked back into that ugly dream. Nevertheless she felt safe enough in her comfy little duplex.

  Safe, she thought. What in the world would her old friend, Ben-the-Safety-Expert think?

  Her mind drifted back to Simi Valley. To her wannabe-romance with Ben Keller…or Ben Martin? What name was he going by now? It had been a few years since his world had invaded hers, leaving her near dead and petitioning the LAPD for lifetime disability.

  Gonzo wondered what the hell Safety Ben would think of her new digs.

  “Cozy little getaway, Miss Lydia.”

  Yeah, she thought. But not so secure. Any moron could break in with a can opener and a pillow case.

  “Sorry. But sometimes you gotta forgive a little breaking and entering as a last resort.”

  Last resort, my ass, she continued. There were far more lucrative houses to break into than Casa de Gonzalez. What was there to steal other than the Xbox, a couple of early generation iPods, and a PC so slow that it considered a dial-up connection as pressing the speed limit?

  “Lydia.”

  Lydia, schmydia. Ben never called her that. He used her nickname Gonzo just like everybody else who knew her more than a week.

  Then why the hell is Dream Ben calling me Lydia?

  It was as if the depth between her unconscious mind and her electrically-charged waking state was thinner than a mosquito's skin. Gonzo snapped awake and flipped to her other side. And when she saw him her body gave a second jolt.

  “You just woke. You’re disoriented. So breathe and listen.”

  Lucky, appearing haggard with circles under his eyes, was comfortably seated in her antique rocking chair next to the fireplace. In his right hand was his untrained pistol.

  “You—”

  “Shut up and listen,” snapped Lucky.

  Gonzo’s head swiveled, looking past the kitchen and down the tiny corridor. Empty.

  “Your boy is still sleeping. As well he should,” said Lucky. “Now look at me and focus.”

  She focused alright, back to the badass Model 1911 in Lucky’s grip. An old school handgun. .45 caliber. Heavy loads. Bullets guaranteed to drop whatever they struck.

  “You took a sleep aid. So you were sleeping hard. I get this. Probably why you didn’t answer my nine phone calls to your cell phone.”

  “I turned it—”

  “Keep listening.” Lucky leaned toward her. “I needed to talk to you. You wouldn’t pick up your phone. So I did the next best thing which was knock on your door. Which I did because your doorbell is hangin’ by a dead wire out there. The reason why I’m in your house is because your queer granddad for a tenant let me round the back when I flashed him my badge. Yeah. I fudged the truth when I said I was your partner but like I said, I had to talk to you. Are you getting all this?”

  “Yeah.” Gonzo nodded, her eyes still keeping tabs on where the muzzle of Lucky’s gun was pointed.

  “The gun? You’re looking at my gun? Got that out because the last time you and I were face to face you had your nine mil up in my face. You remember that or did you sleep that shit off too?”

  “Coulda knocked on the glass.”

  “You need a coffee?”

  “Why the fuck are you in my house?”

  “I need your help.”

  “Right,” said Gonzo, sitting up on the couch, pushing the hair out of her face. She swished her tongue inside her mouth. Dry. She nodded toward Lucky’s pistol. “Can you put that away? Cuz right now that’s the only thing I can’t deal with.”

  First he paused. Then came a simultaneous nod from Lucky as he eased to his feet and tucked the .45 into the holster clipped inside his waistband.

  “I gotta make coffee,” said Gonzo. “I can listen to your why-the-hell-you-broke-into-my-house-excuse while I make coffee.”

  “Got any Excedrin?”

  “What do you think?” Gonzo was already in the kitchen. She shook a jumbo-sized bottle of generic pain reliever and tossed it to the detective. “I can’t believe you’re in my house. Jesus Christ!”

  Lucky unscrewed the cap of the bottle, emptied four capsules into his palm and dry-swallowed all in a single gulp.

  “That skinny banger was right,” said Gonzo. “That stuff’s gonna eat holes in your stomach lining.”

  “Yeah, well that string took us no place,” said Lucky.

  “Us?”

  “One of my guys got a call from his connection with the feds. They think they’re on to the perp. Got a takedown planned for around noon today.”

  Gonzo eyeballed a scoop of ground coffee which she shook into a cone filter.

  “Okay. So you’re golden. Why come all the way out to Pasadena? Thought you could buy me breakfast?”

  “I wanna be there. But everything about the takedown is under a shell of federal fucking silence.”

  “Here’s an idea,” spat Gonzo, her tongue sharpening with every waking second. “You got the deets on that FBI guy we stalked. Knock on his home address instead of mine.”

  “Yeah,” said Lucky, his voice lowering to a growl. “You’re close. But we both know he ain’t gonna tell me shit. He is, though, gonna lead me to the takedown.”


  “Sounds like a sweet plan. What’s keepin’ you?”

  “Can’t really ID the guy, can I? I was creepin’ his office while you were makin’ the stall.”

  “Seriously?” Gonzo shook her head, switched off the hot water before the whistle woke the house and began a slow pour. “Black man. Hundred-eighty pounds. Thirty-five to forty-five. Shaved head.”

  “Pretty stock description. Sounds like a lotta black dudes—”

  “Not wearin’ a suit and livin’ in Reseda,” said Gonzo, her voice elevating.

  “Please,” said Lucky, his voice a decibel above a whisper. “I can’t afford another blind path here. All I need is the ID.”

  “So you want me to get in the car with you, drive all the way to Reseda, just to point the man out.”

  “And quickly. We don’t know if he’s an up and at ’em kinda black dude.”

  “You should hear yourself.”

  “Coffee and go. C’mon.”

  “Absolutely not,” said Gonzo, both hands braced on the old tile coping. “You want my help, then this is how it goes. I get a shower. I feed my son and walk him to school. Then we drive out to the Valley.”

  “And the feeb’s already gone to work.”

  “So if he is, you can follow me back downtown and I’ll ID him at his place of work. Far as I go. Take it or leave it.”

  Lucky didn’t like the ultimatum. Fatigue was beginning to feel like an aggressor.

  “Don’t like my terms, then you can discuss it with my supervisor after I’ve filed my complaint against you for harassment, stalking, breaking and entering, brandishing a weapon on—”

  “Fine. You win.” Lucky surrendered and spun a frustrated one-eighty.

  “And don’t you even try to convince yourself that I’m doing this out of some kind of cop-to-sheriff's respect.”

  “God forbid.”

  “Doin’ this because I feel sorry for you and your loss.”

  “Huh uh,” snapped Lucky. “I don’t need your pity.”

  “Yeah, you do,” said Gonzo. “You got about an hour and a half. Crash on the couch, crash in your car. I really don’t care.”

  Black coffee in hand, Gonzo shuffled off toward her bedroom and shut the door with a decisive thump.

  * * * *

  Lilly Zoller slept five hours, woke, dialed before she got out of bed, and left a message for Conrad Ellis.

  Conrad Ellis hadn’t slept a wink. When Lilly called with the information about the when and where of the possible takedown, he was in the middle of a workout session with his personal trainer. He had told his assistant to tell all callers that Mr. Ellis was unavailable while he was getting down with some sweat therapy.

  Once Conrad heard Lilly’s message, he quickly passed the information on to Garvin Van Der Berk. Garvin, in turn, tapped out an encrypted email on his smartphone and hit SEND. He didn’t need to wait for a response, certain the recipient would jettison whatever he was engaged in to meet him at 7:30 A.M. at Twain’s coffee shop on Studio City’s Ventura Boulevard.

  “Eyes and ears?” asked Dave Wireman. “All he’s looking for?”

  “Presently,” said Garvin. “Client’s a grieving father who doesn’t want to be left out of a possible arrest.”

  “So video too?”

  “I would. But don’t be obvious.”

  “No problem.”

  Self defense expert and bodyguard, sometime stuntman, unpublished writer, and most recently, wannabe actor, Dave Wireman was the ultimate hyphenate who had difficulty deciding what professions to put on his business cards. He had recently settled for just his name and contact information.

  “Got some crumbs there,” pointed Garvin at his buff friend.

  Dave looked down and flicked the English muffin remnants off his one-size-too small teal polo shirt.

  “Damn,” said Dave, noticing the butter stain. “Can take the slob out of the boy but not the boy out of the slob.”

  “Did you have an audition today?” joked Garvin.

  “Naw. Have an appointment to see a stylist. See about cutting back all the silver in my hair.”

  “Thought that was your actor’s calling card. The distinguished look.”

  “Thought so,” said Dave. “But my commercial agent keeps getting calls to send me in on Viagra commercials.”

  Garvin laughed out loud.

  “Not down with being the face of limp dickatosis?” asked Garvin.

  “Not today. I’m your man,” said Dave. “Want me to coordinate with my pals over in the PD?”

  “No. Keep it black.”

  “Guns?”

  “What for? You’re an observer.”

  “Conrad Ellis, man. Client’s a make or break guy in the biz. Ready to do him a solid if he needs a private resolution.”

  “One step at a time. Gave you the details. Shoot me updates on the half-hour.”

  “Dunzo.”

  “I got the check.”

  The two men parted ways without a handshake. Garvin soon disappeared behind the tinted windows of his Range Rover. The door closed with a heavy thump and, in moments, he was headed back over the hill to his West Los Angeles office.

  As was his custom, Dave had backed his late model silver Lexus into a parking spot. This time it was behind the restaurant. Parking against a building like this usually provided a quick getaway if needed. It also allowed Dave to pop his trunk lid and rummage under the custom cut piece of Astroturf without concern that others could spy on the contents. This time it concealed him pulling on his Kevlar vest. Extra discreet and only 3 mils of thickness. He unpacked a brand new polo shirt, tore off the tags and pulled it over the vest. From a locked pelican case he chose a Sig-Saur 250, clipping it on to his belt. He then found a lightweight powder blue hoody with UCLA embroidered in gold on either side of the zipper. It was 9:00 A.M. and already north of ninety degrees. Dave didn’t care though. He planned to spend most of the day in the air conditioning of his V8 Lexus. At the end of which would be ten crisp one hundred dollar bills in his wallet. All for observing the FBI takedown of some unsuspecting, murdering SOB.

  While he was still at his open trunk, Dave decided to check his other wares. Three more handguns with ammo, all nine millimeters. Then hidden under an extra blanket in the deepest reaches, a military AR-16 assault rifle and a Heckler and Koch 416 mm, fully collapsible and recently greased-out after a test firing of 500 rounds. Every square inch of the weaponry was perfectly legal for Dave. He recently leveraged his self-defense work into a Federal Firearms License in order to sell weapons to celebrity clients who didn’t want to risk their left-leaning public posture to some tabloid reporting their patronizing a local a gun shop.

  Dave checked the video camera for battery power, lowered his trunk lid, then speed-dialed his number one sidekick, Terrell.

  “Yo, it’s me. We’re on. Comin’ to get you in about twenty.”

  “Where we goin’?”

  “Long Beach. Wanna suss out the topography before the feds lock themselves in.”

  “Twenty minutes. I’ll be ready.”

  20

  Reseda is a generally flat, suburban landscape near the middle of the San Fernando Valley. The land had once been covered by thousands of acres of orange groves, but over time had evolved into a middle-class stronghold of postwar construction. Sidewalks flanked wide surface streets, all placed into an easily navigated grid of boulevards with easy freeway access.

  The address Lucky was looking for held a smaller house on a wide corner lot that abutted the noisy 101. Towering above was a billboard advertising a Commerce casino, lasciviously depicting a stripperlicious blonde with a Kardashian-like body, winking at the camera, with a caption that read: Feeling Lucky?

  “If there ever was a sign,” said Gonzo from the backseat of Lucky’s muscle sedan.

  Lucky spun the car around and parked four doors north of the address. While he adjusted both of the side-view mirrors to better watch the blue and white stucco house, Gonzo twisted he
rself around to peer out the rear window. It was 9:13 A.M.

  “Betcha twenty we’re too late,” said Lucky.

  “Two cars in the driveway, one on the street,” said Gonzo. “I’ll take that bet.”

  “Give it thirty minutes and I’m gunning it back to downtown.”

  “Whatever,” said Gonzo, getting comfortable. That backseat had saved her from riding shotgun all the way from South Pasadena. She had worried that her game face wouldn’t hold. She was still feeling violated from the early morning intrusion. Lucky had crossed so many lines with her in the last twenty-four hours that she had been mentally typing the official complaint since the previous night. After his uninvited entry into her house, she was now considering criminal charges to go along with the internal LAPD grievance.

  But then there was that short drive to the drop-off line at Madison Prep. She had climbed into the backseat with Travis, having already served up one lie after the other to explain why the boy had woken to a strange man in the house.

  While Gonzo showered, Travis had stumbled from his bedroom, jammies barely hanging on his skinny hips, rubbing his face, just to seek out his mother who he had last left dead asleep on the couch. The boy had been so startled when he discovered Lucky, fully reclined and snoring in the same exact pose he had last seen his mother, that he had let out a prepubescent scream that cut all the way through the hot water blast of Gonzo’s bath. Gonzo had leaped into action, nearly slipping and crushing her own skull while extracting herself from the old tub. She quickly slung on her robe and rushed to her son’s rescue only to find Travis seated on the floor and giving Lucky a grand tour of his newest Xbox game.

  Travis was just that way. Trusting. He possessed the kind of faith that led him to unthinkingly ask Lucky a question on that short drive to school.

  “Who shot you in your head?”

  Gonzo, at first surprised at the temerity of her boy’s question, registered a slight tightening in Lucky’s jawline.