acid, riding through a Salvador Dali painting. I don’t know art but I know he had some weird shit. Hollywood was forever away, but I made it back to the land of broken dreams.
My car was still there. No ticket on the window this time.
I waited until no headlights were near me and left the Deuce sitting on one of Hollywood Boulevard’s side streets. I reached in the backseat and got that gas can, poured gas all over anything I had touched and where I had been held hostage. I tossed a match as I limped away, dusting as much sand off me as I could. I hurried around the corner and got in my ride without anybody seeing me, flames rising behind me, my DNA being incinerated.
The wealth of pain came back as soon as I got in my ride.
I wiped sand from my face, put my soggy shoe on the pedal, and drove as fast as I could.
I couldn’t drive far. Just wanted to drive far enough away to dissociate myself from that Deuce. Ended up going two blocks over to Club 360. I put my suit coat on and went toward the crowd. Club was still bumping, but a lot of people were outside. I had expected that would be a crime scene too. Thought that by now the jackal would have been wrapped up and carted away.
No one was on that side of the street.
The crowd was so fucked up, so busy laughing and leaning on each other they didn’t give a shit about me digging in the bushes and coming out with that cellular. With the filth and sand all over my skin they probably thought I was one of L.A.’s homeless. Street people were always ignored. I needed that phone. Had to call for some help. Panther answered on the first ring.
I caught my breath, held the pain at bay, and asked, “Where you at?”
“Why it take so long for you to call?”
“Relax.”
“You okay?”
“I think so. Yeah. I’m okay.”
“You don’t sound okay.”
“Not now. Where you at?”
“When I called your brother... we were worried. I’m at his crib.”
“How things between him and his friend?”
“Okay, I guess.”
“They fighting?”
“Pasquale’s mad, but he’s not tripping.”
“Good. That’s. Good.”
I told her where to meet me, hung up, walked my agony across the street.
The jackal was still there. He looked like one of L.A.’s homeless, a man down and out on his luck and taking a break from life’s struggle by napping on the concrete.
I had planned to take the .380, plant it in his right hand, make sure it had his prints.
I had wiped down the stun gun, had thought about sticking those prongs in his flesh. Pushing them deep enough to get covered with his DNA.
I didn’t.
That would’ve been too complicated. A fool’s move.
I took the .380 and stun gun with me.
I drove on Highland until it changed into Edgewood, then went south on La Brea, stopped in the parking lot of the Starbucks that was on the east side of the street, just north of San Vincente. Panther pulled up right when I did. Rufus was in the car with her.
Both had worry etched in their faces, borderline tears in their eyes. Whatever they saw when they saw me was more than enough to put a new level of horror in their expressions, stole their breaths, did the same to all questions. Everything but my suit coat was soaking wet. Sand all over my body, bruises in my skin. Hands swollen. Walking like grandpa. That was what they could see. If those prongs had done any internal damage, I didn’t know. Couldn’t tell.
Rufus and Panther got out of her car. I called for Panther to get back in her ride, told Rufus to come to me. I left the driver side door open, hobbled around the rear of the car, got in the passenger side. Rufus was inside and behind the wheel before I got my door closed.
In a gruff voice that sounded like Reverend Daddy, I told Rufus, “Drive.”
He drove. Panther followed. They didn’t drive fast, kept it normal. La Brea was a main artery, plenty of red lights, always had nonstop traffic. Looked like we’d run up on a crowd that was coming from Roscoe’s or Mixed Nuts Comedy Club.
Something shifted when Rufus changed lanes, slid from under the seat on my side.
Rufus’s eyes went to the noise. He saw the .380 and the stun gun.