L.A. Rotten (20 page)

I arrive at the Trauma-Gone headquarters to find Harold in his usual spot—seated behind the computer in the office, printing another batch of brochures. I must look as bad as I feel, because Harold says, “Ooh, you not go represent my business looking like that.” The statement is an unsettling one, for Harold has unknowingly seen me in the depths of some serious skag jags over the past year and a half. Admittedly, I haven't looked in a mirror this morning, and I am only in the office because my body won't allow itself to be overtaken by sleep.

“Sorry,” I say, shrugging limply, and look for a place to collapse.

“Sorry not get business on track. I need you bright eye, bushy tail. I need performance.”

“I'll do whatever you need, just keep me busy.”

“Today, work in warehouse. You wash vehicle, stock shelves, clean everything. I keep you busy. You will remember to come here looking presentable.”

“Fair enough.”

I grudgingly roll up the big aluminum warehouse door, casting out comfortable shadows in favor of brilliantly miserable sunlight. In truth, the work truck is dingy and in need of a serious wash and wax. My body isn't exactly up to physical labor at the moment, but it beats going out into the community to dispense grim advertisements for a business that nobody wants to need.

The floor of the warehouse has a slight tilt, and a square metal grate at the center that drains down into the sewer. The grate is handy because it means I don't need to pull the truck out to wash it—with the midmorning sun already cooking up the asphalt, it is a process that, at the moment, seems one step beyond what my body will endure. My intent is to hand-wash everything at a slow, comfortable pace—just kill time in the shade of the warehouse until Harold feels I've proven my worth for the day. The washing takes on a Zen-like fixation and focus; I will myself to not consider Ivy or Andy and the unique problems that stem from my knowing them. As I work the soapy sponge, each streak of insect creamed across the headlamps and grill becomes its own little crime scene, a scale model of a life wiped out in the blink of an eye. Each tiny gut splatter has its own splash of color stemming from the various appetites and habitats of its previous owner—there is even the minuscule dot of some yellowed little thing, maybe a honeybee, with just a dab of red, right in the midst of the front bumper. The little fucker never even saw me coming, probably. I'm sure I was driving—I'm always driving. I wipe at it several times, forcing my elbow into the motion until my shoulder throbs, but that one little stain reluctantly stays and eventually I give it up as a permanent scar on a mostly clean fender.

The rest of the truck goes quickly, quicker than I'd like anyway, and I am just finishing up the last of the bed liner when the office door shuts and I hear the clump-clump-clump of Harold's imported work boots moving across the concrete toward me. I pretend to be deeply intent on the work and unaware of his presence. He takes the opportunity to loudly clear the phlegm from his throat and expel it expertly in the direction of the sewer grate, where it connects with a thin layer of sudsy runoff and slips down into the oblivion that circumnavigates beneath Los Angeles. The
L.A. Times
says we have a lousy sewer system—I believe this to be true.

“Tom,” he says simply, finally, when I still do not make eye contact, and his voice is authoritative. I hop down from the back of the truck in one fluid motion and stand tall in his presence.

“Yeah?”

He holds the crumpled letter up, my letter from Julie Kelly, retrieved from the garbage can where I'd elected to leave it. “What of this?”

“It's trash,” I try.

“This is no trash, is important.”

“Why?”

“It is forgiveness. It is soul on paper, maybe your soul…” He pushes it at me but I refuse to take it.

“Nah, a soul is not what I need right now, boss.”

“Everyone need soul, Tom.” A flash of movement before me, behind Harold, catches my periphery, and I look up, hearing the quick squeak of sneakers stopping fast on the pavement.

I see the guns before I see the men, two cheap TEC-9 machine pistols, wielded by men in matching black hoodies with Kelly green bandannas tied outlaw-style across their faces. “You're dead, homie,” one of them rasps, his words thick with accent, and though I cannot tell which, I recognize the voice.

At most I get out a guttural cry, an attempt at a warning to Harold, before the warehouse is filled with a terrible clattering. The submachine guns, converted to fully automatic, blaze fire from their vents as they eject their rounds, the bullets seeming to explode outward on top of one another as I drop, diving away from the carnage.

Harold is caught in mid-turn, confused, the projectiles ripping into his sides, eating into patches of his torso, and it is all so much louder than I can believe, the sounds of gunfire amplified by the surrounding walls. I am behind the truck now and motionless, obscured by its tires and low suspension. Harold is still on his feet, still confused, as the cabinets and bottles of disinfectants behind and around him explode their contents outward, like him, spilling their fluids. It is over in another instant; both guns finish their magazines within a nanosecond of one another, each clicking empty once and then falling into silence.

“Go, go,” the accented voice yells, and there is another squeak of sneakers, and then one brief moment of silence before Harold gasps, the air refusing his body, and he drops, arms akimbo, not stretching to catch his fall, and he topples down, the side of his face mashing hard on the water-slicked concrete, eyes open, face still racked with uncertainty. He moans weakly and dies, staring past me, and I do not move. I am shocked by the quickness of the event and my ears are ringing now, playing the vibrations of the gunfire back to me, assuring me that I am still alive while Harold is not.

My boss, lying in dirty L.A. water, wrecked by wounds I cannot see, is dead before me, still clutching the letter tightly in his yellow fist. I hear a commotion from outside now, over the glugging bottles still dumping their poisons beside me, as others emerge from the safety of their warehouses in the industrial park, out into the sunshine, to assess the severity of the disturbance. It is not a time for shock and awe, I realize, and I force myself up and out from my cover.

On one knee, I kneel over Harold's body as if I am checking his pulse, though I really, and discreetly, remove the rumpled paper from his balled fingers. It is wet now; the pen marks are marred by the water and dappled with Harold's blood, but as I stand and turn, I slide it into my pocket, certain that whoever is now behind me does not see it, so focused are they on the body stretched, issuing humors, at my feet.

I save my declarations for the police, and though I expect Detective Stack, he does not show up at the Trauma-Gone headquarters. Instead, I am corralled by a detective named Halbert who does not know who I am or recognize my name. For this I am relieved, though I am sure the anonymity will be short-lived. Yellow caution tape, so familiar to me on an impersonal level, is stretched tight across the mouth of the warehouse, and I do not try to cross it, instead remaining inside, near the perceived safety of my work truck. Halbert's partner works the scene with the CSI techs, marking the bullet holes with their obnoxious number-tab stickers while a man with a camera documents everything. I have seen it all before, and yet, it is only now surreal.

“Tell me what happened,” Halbert instructs, holding a cheap Uni-ball pen to his flip-top notebook.

I have calmed significantly and, since the first strains of approaching sirens, have been readying myself for this moment.

“I was out here washing the truck. Harold was inside…he was printing up brochures for us to pass out. Business has been slow lately.” I allow my speech pattern to take on a frantic stammer as if I'm some average dick who's just been through a traumatic experience and gets bogged down by tangents.

“Alright, just calm down,” Halbert instructs me, not unkindly. His demeanor is the polar opposite of Stack's attack-dog mentality, and I almost feel bad that I have to lie to the man.

“Um…okay, I remember Harold had just come outside to see how I was doing…he seemed jumpy—jumpier than usual—he is—was—always a bit jumpy. He'd just asked me how everything was going, and if I would be okay with him leaving early. I said it was no problem.”

“Why do you think he wanted to leave early?”

I glance around, eyes slightly downcast, as if I am ashamed that the other men might hear me. “Harold has a bit of a problem with gambling and he said the other day that he hasn't been doing so good lately.”

“What sort of gambling?”

“I'm not sure…but I don't think it was the Vegas type, if you know what I mean?”

“I think I do.”

“Well, next thing I know, these two men in black hoods and masks are inside the garage—I didn't see them come in, I had my back to Harold and the doorway…Well, one of the men yelled something in Asian. Like it was in Korean or something. I didn't understand it…and then they started shooting.”

“Did Harold say anything?”

“He started to yell, ‘Get down,' but they shot him!”

“And you were able to get out of the way?”

“You always think you'll do something heroic if you get caught in a situation like this, but I just hid like a scared child. Harold saved my life, though.”

“And you think they were definitely after Mr. Tahm?”

“I don't have any problems with anyone that I know of…so, yeah, probably.”

“You're a very lucky young man,” Halbert concludes. “Would you be able to provide any more details about the shooters?”

“Height and build, but that's about it. I might recognize the voice if I heard it again.”

“I'm going to ask you to stick around. I'll likely have some more questions.”

“Yes, sir. I just hope you get those guys.”

The detective, nice guy that he is, gives my arm a reassuring squeeze.

After I'm allowed to leave, I head out in the Charger, cruising surface streets. I try to convince myself that my drive is an aimless one, but I meander in the direction of the Daddy Long Legs Bar.

I rub at a throbbing vein beneath the skin of my forehead, morose.
I'm sorry, boss. You were another victim of Los Angeles—a textbook case of catching a poorly addressed bullet.
My bullet
. I'm angry, but I don't kid myself that I am going to go hunt down the beaners responsible, and I don't think that they will come after me again. They wanted to spill blood to teach me a lesson, and while they would have preferred the blood to be mine, I know they've made their point. They are likely already heading down across the border to lay low for a spell (if they aren't across already), probably anticipating that I'm dumb enough to try and sic the cops on them.
I'm so sorry to leave it like this, boss, but it's more heat than I need. Thanks for the job and the life, though. You were good to me…better than I deserve.

Harold's death doesn't mean that I am off the hook with the Sureño Lowriders; they'll happily kill me if we ever run across each other in the future—and if I live long enough, I'm sure I will: Los Angeles is a small town when you only live on its fringe.

I'm happy I don't see Ivy's car in the worn-down lot at Daddy Long Legs; if I did, I might have actually gone inside. Having been shot at for the first time, I feel the odd sensation of wanting to talk about it. For once, isolation doesn't suit me. As I drive on, I weigh my options. Duane doesn't want to hear from me. Ivy's a no. Harold is dead. I suddenly realize
I have no options
. I can count everyone I am even somewhat close to on one hand, and still have a finger and a thumb left. And now with Harold being gone, and me chasing Ivy and Duane out of my life, I have no one.

Andy
. The name flashes suddenly in my brain from the ethers. “No,” I actually say aloud, chastising myself, but the name sticks.
Call Andy. He'll understand. He's the only one who will understand anymore.
I drive another block before the battle over my willpower is decided for me. Yanking the wheel, I send my car to the side of the dusty road up beside a blue USPS mailbox and pull out my cell phone.
He'll get it
, my mind reassures me one last time before I slowly punch in the number.

The phone rings several times on his end, and I'm suddenly not sure he will pick up.

“Tom?” he answers, sounding elated.

“I got shot at today,” I confess. “They killed my boss when they were trying to hit me.”

“It wasn't me.”

“I know it wasn't. That's not why I called.”

“Okay, good. Believe it or not, I wouldn't pull that shit on you, you're like the person I'm closest to on this planet.”

“Thanks.”

“I mean that. You've given me hope these last few weeks, brother. Do you know who did it?”

“Yeah.”

“What do you want me to do about it? You want me to go kill them? Because I will—say the word.”

“No, forget it. It was some bullshit thing that's mostly settled now. I…just never got shot at before; it's intense. More than I realized. More than movies make it look.”

“I've never been on that side of the gun either, but getting shot looks like it sucks.”

“Harold, my boss…got it pretty bad.”

“Honestly, better him than you. You gotta know that first. I'm sorry for him if he was a nice guy, but better him than you. I'm glad you're alive.”

There it was—that sense of acceptance that I'd been craving. More than any one thing on the planet, I'd just wanted to hear someone tell me that they were glad I was alive.

“Thanks, Andy.”

“No worries, Tom. I'm just excited you called me first.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean we're close. We should be able to call each other. We're partners!”

“How did you know I called you first? And not Ivy?”

“Because why would you call me if you'd gotten ahold of her, right?”

“Maybe I did try her first, but she didn't answer.”

He sighs. “Tom—man, look, what I told you to do the other night was real fucked up. I shouldn't have put that on you.”

“What's that?”

“About killing your chick. I had some time to think about it, and I can understand how you would have a problem with that—so forget I said it.”

“Done.”

“I'm taking care of it for you.”

“What?”

“Yeah, it's funny you called me now, because I'm right in the middle of it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I'm gonna kill her—your chick—Ivy.”

“Andy—don't.”

“Sorry, amigo, I have to. She's like that little slice of bullshit morality that is fucking with your inner mechanicals. For the good of the team, she has to go. Consider it another gift.”

“Andy, I'm ordering you to leave her alone. She's out of our lives—I cut her loose this morning.”

“Don't I know it—that's when I grabbed her; I picked the lock on her car and waited for her in her backseat underneath a pile of clothes and trash. She's one messy bitch. She was trying to get some detective on the line, but they were giving her the runaround. She was gonna narc us out, man. She knows too much about you and way too much about me. She's gotta go.”

“Where are you at, Andy? Don't do anything until I get there and we can sort this out.” I only briefly let it sting that he said she was calling the cops.

“Sorry, Charlie, not in this tuna. Trust the process. You and I were made to be together. Forget this bitch; you won't have time to save her, I promise.”

And with that, he hangs up.