L.A. Rotten (11 page)

By seven-fifteen, I am a ball of rage. Outwardly, I appear calm—my body language is loose and a bit slouched, mirroring the people on both sides of me, but inside I am taut, a razor wire stretched neck high on a bike path. I am furious at myself now, livid that for all I have on my opponent, I really have nothing. His is the upper hand; I am a tattered toy being dragged along in the wake of a child. Even as I sit here not doing his dirty work, I am constrained by it, hampered, unable to do anything but pay attention to the man and his machinations.

I cool down by selling myself on the idea that it is a trap, most likely.
That's why he's sent me in there—he has alerted the storeowner already…or the cops.
Then:
No, that's not him,
I think. But then I am annoyed that I can mentally project myself into his mindset.
We're not alike at all
; I attempt reassurance that doesn't quite stick.
Maybe he's trying to get me out of my apartment by sending me on a wild-goose chase?
That seems too high-minded, though
. I feel like I can't get a bead on the man—or don't want to admit that I can—which sets off my frustration again. Finally, playing against type, I tap the man next to me, a balding sop in a business suit with deep-set eyes.

“Excuse me. I've got a hypothetical question. Why would one guy give another guy a toy gun and tell him to go rob a liquor store?”

The guy looks over and without blinking or considering the nature of my request says, “He's probably trying to screw your wife.”

I should know better.
I leave the club soda and head for my car, where I move the Gelson's bag from the trunk to the front seat. My dashboard clock reads 7:32. I've got twenty-eight minutes to get across roughly nine cities, going south on Tujunga to the 101, take the east corridor to the 405, then a straight shot down to Pico.
Maybe in the end, the one thing the bastard doesn't expect is for me to just do it, balls to the wall.

I gun it down to Tujunga, accelerating through lights and around anyone doing the speed limit; the Hemi, enjoying the workout, responds accordingly. Fragmented leftovers of rush hour are still trickling across the 101 in convoluted packs as I zoom on, but I burn around and through them, edging the Charger as fast as she is willing to go. It's the first time I've opened her up, but considering the contents of the bag on the seat to my right, it's a bad time to get pulled over. I take my chances, though, and rocket onto the 405.

I am just beginning to feel good about my prospects when traffic comes to a dead stop just before the Sunset Boulevard exit. It's 7:50 p.m. and I know I can't make it without the 405, but the bitch isn't cooperating today. Swerving, I cut over onto the shoulder and drive that way, bypassing nervous traffic victims who honk as I squeeze past their cars, still going faster than I should. A highway patrolman, stuck in the thick of things, sees me doing this and hits his light bar, but there is nowhere for anyone to go, and he can only watch as I disappear off the Sunset off-ramp. Accelerating, I go Sunset to Barrington, and then across Montana, Wilshire, and Santa Monica Boulevard, blazing through stop signs on a number of obnoxious tiny streets with minutes clicking off the clock at an annoying rate.

I'm a few blocks and one freeway underpass away when time runs out. Stuck behind lines of cars at Olympic, I see road construction has gummed up the length of the street as far as the eye can see. I knew it was going to be a tight squeeze even with the freeway open, but I'm bitter as I take a left through the cones and nose the Charger back up toward the Valley. There is no more time for alternate routes. There is no more fight left in me to try any further. I feel like I have given up too quickly, and yet, the truth is far worse: I didn't care until it was too late. There is no cursing of A. Guy now, there is only me to blame. Business as usual.

Harold walks into the office at 10:00 a.m. to find me typing. “What you doing, Tom?” he asks in his affable, stilted English.

“Just entering the photos from yesterday's job.” Actually, I'd logged them somewhere around 3 a.m., and am currently running on no sleep. After the debacle in Santa Monica, I'd stopped back at my apartment just long enough to grab A. Guy's letters. I'd expected to find a new one, but there was nothing. Under the circumstances, no letter is equally as chilling.

I've spent my evening-into-morning typing his letters into a folder, as well as compiling the data profile I have collected thus far. It has been several hours of work and I have little to show for it.

“Did you see? Your friend make it hard for you. Last night on news—no good,” Harold babbles, walking over to the air conditioner, pleased to find it in the “off” position.

“What's that?” I ask, weary, and discreetly remove A. Guy's correspondences from the desk.

“Ohh, that why I thought you didn't sleep. You will be pissed on.” I'm immune to his occasional malapropisms by now and shift to one side to allow him access to the computer. “Yeah, it caught me by surprise. He's a big asshole, for sure.” Harold, his fingers impressively nimble on the keyboard, dredges up a news video and clicks the “play” button.

My stomach drops as the video shows Hank Kelly in a plum sweater, standing at a podium with a suited female whom the caption identifies as “Congresswoman Sonya Gutierrez D–Baldwin Park.” The congresswoman looks like a hard-nosed bitch as she presides over the lectern, gripping its sides with skeletal fingers covered in bulbous gold jewelry. A flash goes off as someone captures the image for what will undoubtedly be a story in today's
Times
. “Thank you,” the congresswoman begins, clearly relishing her post.

There is nothing more horrifying to a parent than outliving a child; particularly when the child is young and has not been allowed the time necessary to sample all that life has to offer. It is a tragedy when young life is cut short by disease or an accident; it is an outrage when anything worse is involved. Ten years ago, Holly Ann Kelly was a victim of the latter. Today, her killer walks free. Was justice served? In the eyes of the law, yes. To her parents standing here with me today though,
nothing
will ever replace Holly Ann Kelly, and justice can never fully be levied. So great was the effect, her father, Hank Kelly, a decorated LAPD lieutenant retired from his position to devote himself full-time to his daughter's memory. So you can imagine Mr. Kelly's horror in finding out that his daughter's murderer is not only back out on the street, but has found employment in the business of cleaning up crime scenes! A man guilty of taking a child's life can freely walk into your home and be directly involved in your family's welfare after a tragedy. This is simply not acceptable! Allowing predators to hone their craft at your expense should not and will not be tolerated. This is a loophole that must be sealed. Permanently! I am teaming up with the Kellys here to spearhead an initiative that will keep violent offenders out of occupations that allow them access to your home.

We're calling it Holly's Law in memory of Holly Ann Kelly; in doing so, maybe Holly can forever be the little angel that looks after your family. For more information, go to my website at—

Harold stops the video. “Now you see—the man is an asshole. Do not worry—we deal with when time comes.” I must look worse than usual, because he pats my arm reassuringly. “It okay, it okay.”

“I'm gonna go home now. Call me if anything comes up.”

“Okay, no problem—you take easy, Tom.”

I feel myself move outside, clutching the stack of letters I've accrued from A. Guy, but there is a sort of ethereal antigravity to my movements and I feel almost out of body. I'm not angry exactly, just sort of lost or devoid of a soul. For the first time ever, I think I feel what it is that the Kellys have wanted me to feel. I've never allowed myself to try and suffer all that bad, because I couldn't. I didn't know what it was like to murder, because consciously, I never had. From the Kellys, or other inmates or cops, it was one thing, but to see that woman stand at that podium and say that I was a killer—for some reason, it hits me hard. I've done my time; I haven't bothered anyone. For her to try and remove me from the one thing I am good at—that I like doing—simply because of a little dead girl from years ago…
I need a fix. Bad.

Shivering involuntarily, I drive back to my apartment, cursing that I've let my coherence go on so long.
That's it
, I cajole myself.
It isn't that I'm a bad guy—I just need a little heroin.

Taking the stairs because I can't wait for the elevator, I get to my door, dizzy and stinking, with sweat pouring down into my eyes. I can't keep my hands still. “I'm not a killer,” I remind myself over and over as I fumble to get the key in the lock.
I'm not butchering people in motel rooms, or forcing people to do things they don't want to do. I'm just an asshole from Los Angeles, just like anyone else in the big city. Everyone has a past, right?

I get inside and slam the door shut behind me, locking it as I do. There are no new notes. “Good,” I gasp to the empty room. “Some time to myself.” It's all I want. I make for the bedroom, strip off my shirt, and grab the cigar box. Dangerous or not, this one is going in a nice, fat arm vein. I just don't have the motor skills at the moment for a toe shot.

Flicking open the lid, I knock aside the paper folded on top and grab out my rig and length of tubing, quickly flexing and tying off.
I've missed this motion
. Easily, I find the vein, wormlike and blue, running through my arm like the 5 freeway. Settling in, I reach for the baggie of pills, and crack the first one open on my spoon. Citrus, flame, cotton, and I'm ready to roll. And then my attention shifts back to the paper, lying still folded on my bedsheet.
There was never a paper folded inside my stash box…
I drop the needle and grab the note. It's Park-Hallsley's letterhead.

So you noticed I am not great with spelling. Guess what? I found out that you have a bigger problem, and it's not this addiction. You don't feel the need to do what I tell you. That is a HUGE problem. That little stunt that you didn't do last night was important to me, and so I've decided to make it important to you. I'm guessing that since you found this note, you're in need of some of your precious drugs. The question is: have I fucked with them? Hmm, what is it you might be putting into your body? Is this the end of the Trauma-Gone man? Tune in next time…same bat time, same bat channel.

P.S. I warned you that the life you saved might be yours.

I drop the note and grab the syringe, holding it to stare up into the murky contents within. It looks normal, and every part of me is screaming for me to inject it.
He's bluffing. He has to be…and yet…
A drop of liquid runs the length of the needle and down onto the plastic barrel; uncertain, I shift my fingers to avoid it. Furious, I tear the tubing from my arm and hurl it back into the box. Syringe, baggie, pills, spoon, even the goddamn lemon juice goes into the toilet, where they swirl and disappear.

I'm shaking bad now and there is sharpness in the back of my brain. I feel the need to retch, but choke it back and instead dial Tony's phone number from memory. No answer. “C'mon, c'mon,” I plead, but it goes to his voicemail. This is not entirely a surprise, as Tony is not a phone type of guy.

I don't know if I can make the drive out to Venice.
Christ, when did I get this bad?
I retch now—it's only dry heaves, but I feel like I've got a virus. That settles it.

I grab a shirt from the hamper and I'm off. The hallway seems impossibly long as I brace myself against the wall to keep upright. Ahead, I hear the ding of the elevator, and I hear myself yell for the person to hold the door, but it is a pitiful sound I make. As I round the corner, the door slides shut. “Please,” I try again, to no avail. The urge to shit swells in me, but there is nothing in my stomach and the wave passes. I make for the stairs and take each one as a sort of lurching tumble that threatens to spill me at the bottom of each level.
Christ, when did I get this bad?
My shirt is already drenched in sweat and flecked with bits of stucco from the walls; I'm sure I look every bit the doper that I've become. That which initially threatened itself as shit comes out topside in a foamy discharge of stomach acid, splattering in small dollops on the concrete base of the stairwell.
I really ought to eat more…
As I climb into the Charger, my gut hurts so bad I double over. I push my face into the steering wheel so that it will divert some of the pain sensation from my stomach, and it is all I can do not to cry against the backdrop of my wailing horn. I cannot drive to Venice like this. Desperate, I pull out my phone and make a call. If I had another choice, I wouldn't, but now, in this moment, it is all I can think to do.

Ivy's phone goes to voicemail after four long rings, and I hang up, ashamed that she will later find my number in her call log. The bitch of it is, at this moment, though I want them to, I know the withdrawal symptoms won't kill me.

My cell rings on the seat beside me and I answer weakly, praying it isn't the answering service.

“Why didn't you leave a message?”

“Ivy?” I ask, strained.

“What's wrong with you?”

“I need help.”

She is at my building fifteen minutes later, helping me into the passenger seat of her Tercel. “Wow,” she admits. “I wouldn'ta picked you for a junkie.”

“We're different than we look on TV,” I try to joke, slouched in my seat and grateful for the ride.

“Is this why you took me to the boardwalk that day? You needed more drugs?”

“I'm sorry.”

“Bullshit.”

We drive out to Venice and don't speak again until she pulls off the 10 and I direct her to Tony's. When she pulls into Tony's parking space, I ask her if she wants to come upstairs, but she can't even look at me.

“How long is this gonna take?”

“Just long enough to go upstairs and buy a fix. Not long, I promise.”

“I'll wait here.”

I hobble around to the front of the building, praying that Tony is home. If he isn't, I'm breaking in, I tell myself, and I know this isn't a joke. I feel like a vampire under the warmth of sunshine, and crave the shaded alcove above the apartment's front door. I hit the call buzzer and wait, anxious.

“Who's there?' sounds over the box, and I feel like weeping, in joy this time. “It's Dr. Tom.”

“Dr. Tom? You mean Tom Tanner of Trauma-Gone?”

“Who is this?” I ask, but I already know.

“Tom…finally we get to talk—me dropping off those letters felt so 1992. I'm glad you read my note before you shot up.”

“Where's Tony?”

“Oh, Tony's here, but he didn't get the note in time, if you know what I'm saying?”

“What do you want?”

“I think it's more about what you want right now. You hurting, buddy?”

“Yeah,” I admit, hunching beside the box.

“Well, I'll make you a deal. I can either buzz you in, and you can meet me face to face, or, if you're really in a bad way, I can drop a hit out the window and get you squared up. Which would you prefer?”

I want to be tough, to find some reserve deep within that allows me to push through, but I tap the intercom button and weakly confess, “The hit.”

A baggie, encasing a wad of tinfoil, drops from the second floor like manna from heaven and I snatch it up. “You made the right choice,” he announces from the safety of the box. “Had you come up, I probably would have had to kill you.”

I shuffle back to Ivy's car, the baggie clenched in my fist.

“What now?” Ivy asks.

“Do you have a pen and a lighter?”

“A lighter, yes; a pen…maybe.” She hunts through her purse and comes up with both items.

“Do you…mind if I do this in your car? There's a breeze outside and it will be difficult.”

“Go ahead,” she says, and crosses her arms, staring straight ahead, frustrated.

“Can you…wait outside?” This gets her looking at me. “I don't want this to…affect you. Look, I'm already embarrassed as it is….Please?”

Ivy climbs out, and shuts the door hard, sending the message, but I'm already disassembling the pen.

Gripping the plastic tube of the pen between my lips, I use a folded parking ticket envelope from Ivy's floorboard to insulate myself from the tinfoil. Administering the lighter to the bottom of the tinfoil, I cook the clump of heroin until it gives off a cloudy trickle of vapor. Using the pen tube, I inhale as much of the smoke as I can, storing it in my lungs as long as I can, the euphoria descending upon me. It's a waste of good heroin, but it does the trick in a pinch. Quickly, I take another hit before the rest of the powder is blackened ash. Ivy watches the entire time though she pretends not to, and after a couple minutes, I open the window to ventilate the car. “I'm sorry,” I try again.

She climbs back in. “Better?”

“Yeah.”

My cell phone suddenly rings, and it's Tony's number on the caller ID. “What?” I answer.

“I just wanted to let you know that the first one is free, but the next one is gonna cost you,” A. Guy taunts. “I took Mr. Brahma's stash. And his phone, so now we can stay in contact like civilized gentlemen.”

“How did you find him?”

“Funny story—I'm following you out to Venice the other day, and you park in his parking spot. Well, obviously I can't just park wherever I want, so I have to go searching. By the time I get back, you're gone. So I spend my day watching your car. Awesome, right? Imagine my surprise when you go up to his room and come down several hours later high as a kite. When I found your stash, I put two and two together. Guess I'm not as dumb as you think.”