Wild L.A.

by Tripp Ellis

  I passed through the boarding gate and stepped to the dock. Waves lapped against hulls and riggings clanked against masts as I strolled back to the parking lot.

  I chirped the alarm to the Ferrari, and the lights flashed. My eyes kept scanning the shadows of the empty lot. When I reached the car, I pulled open the door, slid behind the wheel, and pulled the door shut with a thunk. I cranked up the massive engine, and the throaty exhaust growled. This thing was anything but inconspicuous. But it was damn fun to drive. It was the kind of car where driving 100 MPH felt like 35 MPH.

  I eased out of the parking lot and made my way back to the 405 freeway, which would take me north toward West Los Angeles.

  Before I knew it, I was flying down the freeway at triple digits. Running through the gears with the paddle shifter was a lot of fun. When I realized how fast I was going, my foot backed off the gas, and I let the Italian beast coast to a reasonable speed.

  I took a right on the 10 freeway, then exited La Cienega heading north toward West Hollywood and the Sunset Strip.

  The light at the intersection ahead changed from green to yellow. It was in that in-between stage, and my foot let off the gas slightly. Then I changed my mind and floored it.

  It was a stupid thing to do.

  If you want my honest opinion, I was in the intersection when the light changed from yellow to red. Perfectly legal. But I don’t think the LAPD officer who pulled up behind me, flashing his red and blues, saw it the same way.

  The siren howled, and a jolt of energy traveled down my spine, standing the hairs on my neck tall. My stomach twisted. Nobody likes to see flashing lights behind them, not even a cop.

  I pulled to the curb by the parking meters just past West Olympic.

  This was a bad scenario.

  The officer sat in his vehicle for a moment, running the plates.

  I rolled down the driver’s side window and stuck my hands out in plain view, holding my shiny gold badge.

  It took a few moments for the door of the patrol car to swing open. The officer stepped out and started toward me, the beam of a Mag-lite flashlight spotting me.

  “Evening, officer,” I said with a smile, trying to diffuse the situation.

  “Sir, I pulled you over because you ran the red light.”

  “My apologies. I could have sworn it was yellow when I entered the intersection. Won’t happen again.”

  “Sir, are you carrying?”

  “I am. Our department requires it.”

  Maybe he didn’t like the fact that I flashed my get out of jail free card. He proceeded with the stop.

  “I’m going to need you to step out of the vehicle carefully. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  He took a step back, keeping one hand on his pistol and the other hand aiming the beam of the flashlight in my eyes.

  Cars blew past us on La Cienega.

  I pushed open the door and emerged from the vehicle with my hands in the air, still clutching onto my badge.

  “I need you to step around to the rear of the vehicle,” the officer commanded.

  “Sure thing.” I complied with his request.

  With my hands in the air and my jacket gaping open, it was easy to see my pistol in its Kydex holster perched in my waistband.

  The officer drew his pistol and aimed it at me.

  I didn’t like where this was going. I didn’t like it at all.

  “You see that I’m a fellow police officer?” I asked.

  “I do, sir.”

  That fact didn’t seem to change his demeanor.

  My face tightened.

  “With your thumb and index finger, I need you to remove the weapon and set it on the ground in front of you.”

  This was the part I didn’t like. All kinds of scenarios flashed through my mind. He could easily say I was going for my pistol, then discharge his weapon in self-defense.

  “How about you write me a ticket for running the red light, and we call it a night?”

  “Are you failing to comply with my request?”

  What an asshole.

  37

  “I’m sorry, but I’m not exactly comfortable reaching for my weapon while you have your pistol aimed at me,” I said. “I feel like you’re on edge. A little twitchy. You can see how that creates a problem for me.”

  “It’s going to create a bigger problem if you don’t comply,” the officer barked.

  “Toss me the handcuffs. I’ll put them on, and you can take my pistol yourself. That’s a fair trade, isn’t it?”

  He put the flashlight under his armpit, still keeping the beam aimed at me along with his pistol. He pulled the cuffs from a pouch on his utility belt and tossed them to me. I slapped them on my wrists behind my back.

  The officer inched forward and removed my pistol from the holster.

  He took a step back, commanded me to stay put, and returned to his patrol car. He set my weapon somewhere inside. The headlights made it difficult to see inside the vehicle.

  Was this guy a rookie with an attitude? Or did he happen to be friends with Detective Paxton?

  Cars continued to buzz by, swirling gusts of wind around me. Some of them honked, while others shouted, feeling elated that they weren’t in my shoes.

  “Have you had anything to drink tonight?” the officer asked when he returned.

  “Yeah, I had a few drinks six hours ago.”

  “How many is a few?”

  “Two. I had two drinks with dinner six hours ago. Is this always how you treat visiting law enforcement?”

  “Sir, when I was near your person, I smelled a significant odor of alcoholic beverage. I’m going to need to initiate a field sobriety exam.”

  “Seriously?”

  “I believe you to be intoxicated.”

  Anger swelled within, but I managed to contain myself. “At this point, I’m going to respectfully decline any testing you may offer.”

  “So, you’re refusing to comply?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have it your way. I’m placing you under arrest. You have the right to remain silent…”

  At this point, I knew to shut the hell up. There was no talking my way out of anything. He escorted me to the patrol car and stuffed me in the backseat.

  Officer Dickweed climbed behind the wheel, put the car into gear, and drove away from the scene.

  “What about the vehicle?” I asked.

  “It will be impounded.”

  He didn’t call dispatch. He didn’t arrange for a tow truck. He didn’t let anyone know he had a suspect in custody.

  That’s when I started to grow concerned. I wondered if he had even called in the stop.

  “I suppose you know Detective Paxton?” I asked.

  The officer’s eyes flicked to me in the rearview mirror. It was all the confirmation I needed. He knew Paxton, alright. I could see it in his eyes.

  We headed downtown, well past any substation. I knew I was screwed. We cruised down Wilshire for a while. Things got doubly concerning when he turned down a dark alley.

  He parked the car by the dumpster. Before he climbed out of the vehicle, I asked, “Is this where you take all the drunk drivers?”

  He slammed the door, moved to the rear door, and yanked it open. “Get out!”

  I slid across the seat, and he grabbed my arm, pulling me out of the vehicle. Another car pulled into the alleyway, blocking the exit, the high-beam headlights squinting my eyes.

  The oncoming car stopped, and two men exited. I couldn’t make them out through the glare of the headlights until they stepped around the front of the vehicle. It was Detective Paxton and another man.

  Not surprising.

  “He’s all yours,” Officer Dickweed said.

  “Thanks. We’ll handle it from here.”

  With a smug tone, the officer said, “Have a nice evening.”

  I wondered how much he knew about Paxton. Did he know what a scumbag he was?

  He climbed back into his patrol car and
sped away down the alley, the smell of exhaust filling my nostrils. It smelled rich, like the O2 sensor was going bad.

  A streetlight on Wilshire cast long shadows in the alley. Scraps of newspaper scraped against the concrete. The passageway smelled like body odor and urine. There were trash bags lined against the wall, and cardboard boxes had been flattened into makeshift mattresses. Though, there didn’t appear to be any current homeless residents occupying the alleyway at the moment.

  Paxton had an annoyed, but smug look on his face. He had the upper hand, and he was going to make sure I knew it. “You’ve become a real pain in my ass.”

  “Is this the part where you beat me to a pulp, tell me to get out of town, and never come back?”

  He chuckled. “I’m a civilized man. I would never do anything like that.”

  “No. Of course not. You’d have somebody else do it for you.”

  He smiled. “I gotta hand it to you. Nothing gets past you, does it?”

  “No. It doesn’t.”

  “Come on, smart ass,” he said, grabbing my arm. “Your time is up.”

  He dragged me to his car and stuffed me in the back. Then he and his partner climbed in up front. Paxton backed out of the alley and continued toward east LA. He wasn’t taking me to the station. That much was certain.

  38

  East of downtown, the sidewalks of 5th Street were lined with tents and makeshift lean-tos built from tarps. Trash cluttered the area, and graffiti tagged the walls.

  We cruised deeper through the urban chaos, heading toward the LA River. The wide, concrete channel that cut through the center of the city had been home to numerous action movie car chases over the years. The area under the 6th Street viaduct was an iconic part of Hollywood’s movie history.

  But the bridge was gone now.

  Demolished because of the weakening structure. The nondescript tunnel off El Rey Street that led down to the river was blocked. The area was undergoing an urban renewal. A new bridge would be built. More coffee shops and markets would spring up. Warehouses would be reclaimed and turned into high-end housing. Property taxes would increase. But as it stood, it still wasn’t an area you wanted to be after dark.

  Paxton pulled the vehicle into an empty construction site near the railyard that ran along the river. The foundations of a building had been laid. There were several concrete pylons supporting four unfinished floors. There was lots of scaffolding and rebar. Construction debris brimmed from industrial dumpsters, and heavy equipment hibernated during off-hours.

  Paxton’s unmarked car crunched over the gravel of the construction yard and ground to a halt. Four thugs emerged from the shadows and stood in the beam of the headlights.

  It didn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out what was going on. Paxton would keep his hands clean. He’d have someone else do the dirty work for him.

  Paxton stepped out of the car and approached the thugs. They exchanged a few words. I couldn’t hear what they were saying.

  Paxton’s partner in the passenger seat said nothing. The big ogre had a short blonde buzz cut and a big chin. He was a broad-shouldered guy and looked like he could have been a boxer back in the day. I had no doubt he could take a punch or two or ten.

  “Hey, Big Guy,” I said. “What’s your name?”

  “What the fuck is it to you?”

  “I just want to be able to put a name to a face when I kill you.”

  That got his attention. He craned his neck over his shoulder, and his blue eyes blazed into me. A smug smirk tugged his lips. “When you get to hell, tell ’em Duke sent you.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be waiting when I get there.”

  Paxton moved back to the car, opened the rear door, and pulled me out of it. “I want to introduce you to your new friends.”

  He marched me around the front of the car, into the beam of the headlights. The thugs’ narrow eyes surveyed me like wolves, ready to tear into flesh.

  There were lots of gang tattoos, wife-beater T-shirts, and plaid work shirts. One of them gripped a lead pipe. I had no doubt I would get acquainted with it soon.

  Paxton cocked his fist back and hammered a punch into my kidneys. My back buckled around his fist, and I dropped to my knees.

  I gritted my teeth and stifled a groan.

  Paxton knelt down, released the handcuffs from around my wrists, then kicked me in the back, shoving me to the ground.

  My hands broke my fall, but I still got a face full of dirt. As I was starting to get up, a thug took the opportunity to kick me in the belly. The force of the impact rolled me onto my back.

  Paxton lorded over me. “Enjoy the rest of your life, scumbag.” He chuckled. “All five minutes of it.”

  “I’d watch your back if I were you,” I said, my jaw tight, trying to act like the boot to the gut was no big deal.

  Paxton chuckled again. “You got heart, I’ll give you that.”

  His footsteps crunched against the gravel as he moved back to the car and climbed into the vehicle. The door slammed shut, and the car clunked into gear. The heat from the engine and the ticking of the lifters faded away. So did the light from the headlight as the vehicle backed out of the construction site, the tires rolling over the gravel, crackling and popping.

  The gang unleashed fury.

  A torrent of boots found my rib cage. I was kicked and beaten from all angles. Plumes of dust rose around me from the dry gravel, filling the air with haze. With each breath, I inhaled more of the dry, powdery dust, causing me to choke.

  Fists and boots pummeled my body. My lips were split. My cheeks lacerated. The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth, and I drooled a pinkish goo onto the dirt. The ping of the metal pipe rang out with every strike against my body. Pain rifled through me, searing and sharp.

  There was nothing I could do.

  I was sure this was the end.

  My body would end up in a dumpster. Probably set on fire. Maybe I'd be tossed into the river or buried in a shallow grave.

  I couldn't breathe. My lungs were on fire. My ribs were cracked.

  I was on the verge of blacking out when a voice said, "Stop."

  It was timid at first.

  The beating continued.

  "Stop!" the voice said with more force.

  "Stop, I said!" the voice shouted.

  The beating slowly dissipated.

  I could barely move. My swollen eyes peered up at the blurry faces. One drew closer and hovered over me, examining my features.

  "That's him!" the voice said. It belonged to a kid, maybe 14. The face came into focus, and I recognized the yellow jersey. Number eight from the liquor store robbery.

  "That's the guy who saved Eduardo," the kid continued.

  "You sure about that?" the leader of the gang asked. He wore a white T-shirt and khaki pants that were now spotted with my blood.

  "That's him. I know it. He chased me. Eduardo would be dead if it weren’t for him."

  The gang leader gave me a hard look. Then he told the kid, "Look at him again. Are you sure?"

  "Positive!"

  The gang leader leaned over me with his hands on his knees. "Antonio says you saved my little brother. That true?"

  I could barely choke out the words, "If your little brother is the kid that knocked off the liquor store on Sunset, then yeah. If not, I don't know what to tell you."

  The gang leader hesitated for a moment, looking torn. "This puts me in a difficult position."

  "Want to switch places?" I asked.

  A slight chuckle escaped his lips. "See, around here, we take care of our own. You took care of my brother. I owe you a debt. But I also never break my word. And I promised Paxton I would take care of his problem.”

  "I'm just a guy looking for the truth."

  "Looks like you found it." He paused. "The way I see it, you've got two choices. Me and my boys here can finish the job, and Paxton's problem goes away. Or, I let you go, and you disappear. You get out of town, forget about the truth, and Pax
ton is none the wiser."

  "What’s your angle with Paxton?"

  "That's none of your business. Now, what's it going to be?"

  "I think this is my cue to leave town," I said.

  "Smart man." With a low, stern voice, he warned, "My debt to you is paid. If I ever see you again, or if you embarrass me by showing your face around town, I will find you and kill you. You got that?"

  "I got it.”

  He stood up and signaled to his gang. They backed away and left the construction site. The lead pipe clinked as the thug tossed it on the ground near me. The kid knelt down and snatched my watch from my wrist. I was too worked over to care. Gravel crunched under the soles of their shoes as they disappeared.

  I staggered to my feet. My head throbbed, my temples pounded, my back hurt, my arms were bruised and sore, more than one rib was cracked, and my thighs had a deep, aching pain.

  Paxton had taken my cell phone, my wallet, and keys. I had nothing, and I was in a bad part of town.

  Things were looking grim. I couldn't imagine how they could get worse, but clearly I wasn't using my imagination well enough.

  39

  Each step was an agonizing, monumental task. Zombies had better strides. I staggered north on El Rey Street. It wasn't long before a car passed by, an old Impala—white droptop with red interior. It circled the block and passed by again. This time two thugs hopped out, and I found myself on the business end of a pistol. The smell of gunpowder and oil filled my nostrils.

  “Give me your fucking money!”

  A faint chuckle escaped my swollen lips.

  "What's so funny?”

  “Do I look like I have a nickel to my name?”

  The thug looked me up and down. “You look like shit, actually. What happened, your old lady get pissed at you?"

  I chuckled again, and it hurt like hell.

  “Empty your pockets!” the thug commanded.

  I turned them out—there was nothing but lint.

  "No watch? Nothing?"

  I held my wrist and dangled it, displaying the fact it was bare.

  The thug shook his head. "Waste my time. I ought to shoot you on principle."