Hard Bite (18 page)

"You say there was an accident?"

"He's lying on the side of the road. Send paramedics."

I turn the phone off. I get back in the van. Help will probably come from Burbank, it's closer, so I speed back down, the way we came. Groaning out loud as my mind races:

I killed an innocent man.

I killed an innocent man.

I killed an innocent man.

This is not me.

This is not who I am.

This is not who I am.

A quarter mile down, I smash my cell phone on the dashboard and pitch the SIM card out the window. I shout at the windshield:

"Son of a Bitch you fucking Grim Reaper. Keep me walking dead. Rolling dead. Motherfucka you—"

Sid cowers on the seat and watches me with eyes like Marty's—sparkling with truth, but minus the power to do anything about it. I rant and rave like a madman, all the way back down.

Washington Boulevard has an uneasy stillness. The night holds its breath. We return to the Del Rey. I go straight to the computer and google "Marty Hatchfeld." His Facebook page profiles a down-and-out Hollywood screenwriter with his last script sale in '95. There's a photo from about twenty years ago and he wasn't that photogenic, even then. It's for sure the tabloids won't mourn Marty Hatchfeld.

A final thought slices into me: He was killed by a hit and run driver. Behind me, I hear Death laughing, long and hard.

LASD Homicide Bureau, Commerce

"What you got there?" Doug peers over Leone's shoulder at her computer screen. It's late. Very late, but there's a stack of stuff they need to get through.

"It's called Dulce de Leche, a new flavor." She indicates a giant container of take-out coffee. "Try some."

"Not that.
That
." He points to the screen titled Hit and Run Statistics. He reads out loud, "Cases in LA and California have the highest fatalities in the country."

Leone swivels to look at him. "Remember those college students hit in a crosswalk at USC?

"Vaguely."

"One of them got carried on the windshield so the driver stopped, not to help the kid, but to peel him off and dump him on the ground. Ring a bell?"

Doug winces. "Any relation to our cases?"

"None so far."

"Let's look at this then." He shows her a well-used interoffice mailer from downtown, the flap tied down with string. He removes a sheet of paper that has obviously passed through a dozen hands and official stampings before finding its way to Doug's desk. Smoothed flat, the printing is neat on ordinary, lined paper.

Dear Law Enforcement,

Hector Stamos was not killed by a dog. He was bit in the neck by a monkey. There is a man in a wheelchair, with a monkey, at 17240 Washington Blvd. in Venice. He kill Hector over a passport maybe. Please help. God bless you.

It's unsigned.

Leone, "Well, well, well."

"Run the address. See if it's for real."

She clicks away on the computer. "17240 is the Del Rey Tower. It's real." More clicking. "Current occupant is Dean M. Drayhart." Leone peers closely at something onscreen.

"What is it?"

"Says he was rendered a paraplegic in 2009. It was a hit-and-run."

***

LA City limits. Orella sits alone in the back of a black town car. Tired. She misses Maria's company and can't wait to get back in her own bed. The drive from TJX has been smooth. A cell phone up by the driver rings. He answers, holds it out.

"It's for you."

"Hola Señora. I am Diego. I work at Del Rey."

"Si, Diego."

"The monkey man is back, Señora. He come back tonight."

"He's there right now?

"Si."

Rage insta-boils in her skull. The police have done nothing. Even with the address mailed to them, they let a murderer walk free. She snaps the phone shut and addresses her driver. "What you got on you, carnale?"

"My S&W."

"I'll take it. I'm out of cash right now. Tell Mateo what else we owe. He'll pay you the rest."

He hands over a Smith and Wesson revolver with a homemade silencer screwed on the end.

"Loaded?" Without waiting for an answer she opens the chamber. It's full. "Turn around, we're going to Washington."

"We doing a job, Señora?"

She sizes him up for a moment. "Just drop me. Don't hang around. I'll call when I need you." She slips the grey hairpiece out of her purse and jams it back on her head.

***

I wake up on the parquet floor of the apartment. Must have passed out and slipped out of my chair. Sid chirrups at me from the couch, just as someone taps at the door. I croak Cinda's name.

"Your neighbor down the hall, sir," a female voice answers.

Try the door, I've fallen out of my chair.

The door cracks open and a grey-haired lady slips around it. She glances at Sid and pulls something out of her purse.

"Do I know you?" Then I notice what's in her hand. A gun. "Wow," I say stupidly.

She kicks the door shut and takes aim at Sid. Pulls off a shot. The silencer muffles the retort as a couch cushion explodes. Sid screams in surprise. Unharmed, he vaults onto the living-room curtains. I feel the woman's hesitation. An excited monkey is a tough moving target but blowing out the street-side windows might not be the best move.

"That animal killed my son," she blurts.

Sid jumps back to the coffee table. POW. The acrylic top takes the shot. Sid skitters under the couch as gunpowder collects in the air. The woman sneezes.

From my prone position on the floor I venture a distraction. "Your son? Lady I don't know your son."

She faces me full on and snatches at her hair. The grey disappears and long dark hair spills out. "Lakewood Park."

I hear myself hiss, "He killed a good man with four children."

BLAM! This shot hits the metal leg of the couch and flies wild into a baseboard. "I can prove it!" I yell." I'll show you!"

***

Every nerve screams at her to kill him now. But she can't pull her eyes away from that scrawny face, the oversized eyes. He's calling Ambrose a killer? What's this about a man with four children? Need-to-know sucks the fuel from her hatred.

"Prove it" she says in a voice so dry and cracked it sounds a hundred years old.

"It's on-line," he says, crawling to his wheelchair. He looks up. "I can't get up by myself."

What are the chances this paralyzed scarecrow can disarm the situation?
Orella purses her lips, squints left and right around the room... then cautiously sets the gun on a peninsula of acrylic still clinging to the ruined coffee table.

"If you grab me under the arms..." He pushes up into a sitting position.

To Orella it's like lifting a child.

He wheels away, chair squeaking, and the sound starts her stomach jittering. He taps a few keys. "The accident happened April 17
^th
. Your son had a car repair right after that, right?"

The Mustang. The front end. "Yes."

"Know why?"

"He hit a norteno. It was nothing."

"Look."

The news website loads. A headline reads, "Father of four slain in hit-and-run." The date and time matches Ambrose's accident. Her palms grow slick on the gun. The Smith starts to jitter in time with her stomach.

The crippled man speaks softly. "If it's any consolation, I lost a daughter myself."

"What?"

"To a hit and run driver."

His terrible eyes hold the truth and they slice to the quick. She tries to speak but her lips won't co-operate, throat full of gravel.

"I'm sorry, I can't hear you," the man says. His eyes flick behind her and she turns to see the monkey beside the coffee table, reaching out a black paw to touch the Smith. "HEY," she screams and the monkey screams too, snatching back his paw like it's been burnt. The gun falls to the floor and spins harmlessly as the creature dives back under the sofa. She strides over, snatching up the weapon. "Thought you'd get lucky, huh? LOSER."

The Smith aims at the sofa and fires twice. BLAM, BLAM. Stuffing explodes in the air. An enraged howl under the smoking furniture and the little beast charges. Zigzaging forward, nasty teeth bared. Another shot—wild again. He leaps up, knocking the Smith from her grasp. The gun somersaults skyward, rotating end over end, and as it comes down it fires in Orella Malalinda's face.

***

Blood creeps over the parquet floor. Everything is silent, tiptoe quiet. Sid and I blink and stare, blink and stare. Is she dead? Blink. Stare. Blink. Stare. Sid breaks the spell. The lady's purse lies streaked with liquid red drooling down the side. He hops over to it, examines it, smells it, and extracts objects one by one—an empty money clip, ID that looks real but probably isn't, a dainty purse-pack of tissues. The bag is nearly empty by the time he discovers a shiny object. He jumps on my lap to show it. A religious medal of the Virgin Mary. Engraved on the back: Orella,
te
quiero
, Alejandro.

Who is she? What 20-something man has a mother who packs a pistol and tracks his killer down instead of calling police? I turn back to the computer.

A Google search of Orella + Alejandro brings up the surname Malalinda, and a lurid association of crime, drugs and Mexican mafia. Now I know who the clowns were at Baja Cantina.

A key wiggles in the lock.

"Cinda, don't—"

The door opens. Cinda gasps. She steps over the body and grabs the back of my chair pushing me and Sid out the door. It slams behind us, and we rush for the elevator, leaving red tracks in the hall. The elevator car is still waiting and we pile on. Fifth floor the car slows and the overhead number lights up. A woman gets in with a basket of laundry. She doesn't seem to notice the shade of red on my wheels, and gets out on B. We continue to P.

At the Firebird, I come to my senses. "Cinda it's all over."

"Explain later."

"Did you hear me? It's over."

She's opening the doors. Popping the trunk—in steamroller mode.

"I killed a guy earlier. A guy who didn't do anything."

"You what?"

"I fucked up. I killed an innocent man."

"I don't care!"

"I have to turn myself in. "

"No, no NO!"

I do the only thing I know how. I roll close. "Listen to me." She bends down. I slap her hard with my good hand. "Get the fuck outta here. it's over. Can't you see that? FUCK OFF."

She reels back, hits the Firebird holding her face.

Sid howls.

Snot starts to run from her nostrils.

"Take Sid. Go. Go on. GO."

He hops into Cinda's arms. I turn my back, and stay turned, even when the 8-cyls hit the street and grow distant in the night.

Back in the elevator, the car stops on Main. The door opens and two somber- looking people stand there. They seem surprised. "Are you Dean Drayhart?" the man says. He's got on a jacket and tie. "I'm Detective Coltson. This is my partner, La—"

"Hi guys," I reply. "I was about to call you."

They step in.

"Own a monkey, Mr. Drayhart?"

"Not any more."

"What happened?"

"Uh, he escaped." I jab the button for my floor. "What you need to see is…" Coltson and Whatever-Her-Name-Is look at each other. "…the lady who just shot herself in my apartment."

The elevator opens on red tire tracks striping the hall carpet.

"Is that what I think it is?" Coltson says.