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I'm really sorry about what happened in New Jersey.

Wind buffets the car. I can taste salt and sand in the wind. A storm feels like it's coming.

I finish the calls. Take a cigarette and stand behind the Infiniti. The clubs exterior was painted completely black with large gold letters spelling it's name glistening in the sun. The cigarette was good. Filled my lungs. Largo walks down the sidewalk and over to where I stand. We wait between both cars. I say.

You got a spot? Good one?

He smiles.

Great spot. Clean line of sight and indoors.

Indoors?

Largo juts his chin towards a motel window above us. It was perfect. Ideal view of the club parking lot.

I smile and nod.

Let's get our stuff inside.

We grab our cases and equipment. The motel is more functional than clean - just like a motel. I drop my case in the room. I suppose in West Hollywood they get lots of guys sharing a room. Largo opens the curtain and pulls across the net. He puts the long case with the rifle on top of the bed. We won't be sleeping in it. The plan is to get hold of this kid and take him away from here. That is my goal. I am focused, fearless. It's never that simple. With someone like Yama calling all the shots it feels bad. I like watching Largo rig up the set. It's serious kit. I like him having my back. I like it that when this is over I can go back to Chicago.

I understand there are many things I do not like. I don't consider upsides. If I take care of the downsides, upsides are all that's left. I normally dwell on downsides. Consider each angle. Each detail. There is no time here. Angles and details are all I have. They have to fall in line and maybe, just maybe, there will be an upside to this shit.

The sky is amber waiting for the sun to close it's account for the day. Largo clips and slots steel against steel. He slides a small tripod onto a table reserved for coffee or a lite lunch. He clamps the tool down and the rifle into another slot. Slams in a magazine hard and eyes the scope. I tell him.

I'm going down to walk through.

He keeps his eye to the scope and revolves the rifle towards the nets.

Sure, let's get together in fifteen and talk it over.

Good.

I leave Largo alone with his weapon.

DUNE

The first star of the twilight appears. The moon is white, white, neon even though it's not even dark. Amber fades as the blue black pulls over the sky. I wander onto the lot toward the club called Dune aware that Largo is above watching over me.  I make a couple of hand signals that he taught me. He learned them in the Marines. The Fucking Corp. I could see Largo being a big pain in the ass in The Corp. He told me he liked it. Went to Vietnam. Killed lots of gooks and I reckon if I showed him a map of the world right now he couldn't point out where 'Nam even was.

I cross the street and onto the lot of the club up to the entrance. The doors fly open. I freeze. A black guy drags eight chrome poles out into the sandy salty air. He plants them in a cluster. Closes the door and turns to me.

We closed.

What time do you open?

You a member?

A member of a night club?

It's pretty exclusive.

Looks pretty run down.

He smiles.

In this town, this place is smokin' hot. Anyways I gots to get this rail up, the place opens up around 9. A line starts here in 15 or 20 minutes.

He grabs the first pole, paces then drops it like a traffic cone. Ignores me. Goes back inside. Comes back with a bunch of red ropes. He paces with the other chrome poles and connects them with the ropes until his corridor, his runway, is ready for the red carpet crowd.

I leave him. I walk around the building checking the exits and side streets. I walk a block down and back up. Lights are bright now. Vertical bulb arrangements made like blinking arrows tell me there is liquor inside the stores. I go into one of the joints opposite the club, grab a bottle of JD, when I fold out the twenty and singles slowly over the check out counter I check the security monitor fed by the camera outside. The monochrome is pitiful, as is the range. It won't catch a thing happening over at Dune. I thank the Asian store clerk and take the bag back to the Super 8. The street is busy. A Harley D and another fake cocksucker blares past with a young chick riding pillion. Maybe it's jealousy on my part. Fuck that. The moon is white as bone but the lights of LA pale it. I walk into the Super 8. No one at the check in. I take the elevator and swipe the card that lets me into the room. Largo is lay on his bed fully clothed watching TV. A film is on the screen.

What's this about?

I rip open the paper bag and go into the bathroom, grab 2 glasses I assume are for toothbrushes and pour 2 fingers of bourbon into each glass. I hand one to Largo. He tells me.

It's an Australian movie about 3 brothers. One's a real asshole, fucking nut loon, the others done a deal to kill him to save the last younger kid brother.

Sounds a bit complicated.

I lay on the other bed, rest the tumbler glass on my stomach, reach beneath the small of my back and pull out the uncomfortable hunk of metal from my waistband and place it on the nightstand. Largo props himself onto his elbow not taking his eyes off the screen. He sips the JD. I lay and watch the movie. It's all heat haze, yellow sand and black natives. Looks hot. A desert. Set in the 1800's I guess. Largo is enjoying the story.

The rifle is mounted. Locked and loaded. Perched on the breakfast table. Largo sips. I lie still. The glass on my belly rises and falls with my breath. Rises and falls. Rises and falls.

The older brother in the movie, the fucking nut loon, is holed up in some canyon. I check my watch. Prop myself up. Sip the JD. It's warm and burns my throat. I dream of politics, business, crime. I dream of New Jersey and the man with the ice blue eyes. I can see his body. His mouth gaping lifeless. I check my watch.

I go to the window behind the net curtain standing beside the rifle. The black guy with the red vest was right, the line was growing. Men and women. Boys and girls outside Dune. Dressed for effect, talk and laugh. How many will make it through this night unchanged? Probably most. But not all. Some will meet a person they will spend many happy hours with. Some will meet someone who will make their life a dirty desolate tale of stalled ambition and lonely desperation. It could be attraction. It could be a deal. It could be a favor. I turn my mind back inside. Back to politics, business, crime. I am disengaging. Moving away. Distancing myself by increments from everything around me. Turning inside. Moving away from any form of emotional contact. I can feel the effect the mind has on the body. I can feel the chill of the A/C and the warmth of the JD but feel nothing else. Maybe, just maybe, a tiny amount of loathing for what I have become. For what I have done to my mother. For actions that brought death to my sister. Sister. Carly. Little Carly. The thought springs a trigger that brings the Rage. My heart beats faster. I now do not feel the A/C or the JD. I don't feel anything but the rage. I check my watch. Tell Largo.

Turn that shit off. We go now.

But it's getting good.

We fucking go now.

I snatch the remote and hit the red button. Largo creaks his old bones off the bed and stretches. I say.

We clear on the signal?

Yeah.

You don't go or do a thing until I give the signal.

Yeah. I know.

I look at Largo. Now I don't see an old friend. An old mentor. I see a stupid old cunt who is almost useless to me. He can handle the rifle and keep my back in case one of these kids fancies a shot at the title. But that's it. Period.

He sees that look on my face. He's seen it before. It's the Rage. I suppose when a heroin addict hits up his face takes on a stupor. When the Rage comes over me, my demeanor, my exterior alters. I need it. It is the thing that has defined my life. It is my curse.

DIRTY TERRY AND BLACK WHITEY

I grab my piece and head out the door. The corridor is empty. I check both ways. I take the stairs. They are dirty. I can hear someone in the stairwell above me. I trot down creating distance.

I'm on the street. Sounds are magnified. It's a cacophony of crashing sounds. Music. Voices. Yelling. Traffic. Cars. Motorcycles. A drum beat. A bass beat. Helicopter. Argument. A plea for spare change. A plea for mercy.

I cool. Cooler. Take my time. Go to the crosswalk. Press the button. Green man - cross. Walk back up the sidewalk. Hold up my hand. A piercing red light flashes across my eyes. Largo's laser signal that he has me in his scope. It flashes again. I'm clear. I can proceed. He does not see danger or my target. I walk to the back of the line at Dune. I had weaved my way through the cars on the lot there were still places for the exclusive members. 2 girls in the line in front of me stare at my clothes, look at each other then laugh. I want to pistol whip the one with the fake nails and fake blonde hair. The brunette I would like to wrestle to the ground then smash her face with my elbow. Smash and smash. I would only stop when there was only a bloody sop to clean up.

I smile at the thought. The blonde makes a face and turns back towards the rest of the line and the entrance doors. 10 yards ahead 2 bouncers and a small man between them are talking to the small intimate crowd at the front of the line. The small man has a clipboard.

A hobo approaches the rope and the others behind me about 10 feet away. Most of the in-crowd ignore him. He holds a dirty torn  baseball cap moving from person to person He simply says: Change?

A Californian King says something to Hobo. His friends laugh. I move reflexively but force myself to stop. My jaw tense. A bouncer raises his head to examine what the laughter is. He spots the hobo. As Hobo reaches me, so does the bouncer. He says.

Hey Terry, I told you twice now, leave the fucking customers alone man.

I say.

It's okay.

I drop a 20 into the ragged baseball cap. The bouncer looks at me. He is a white guy but seems to want to be black. He is about 250lbs and 6'2" with dreadlocks.

He tells me.

No it's not okay. Okay?

He takes my 20 out of the cap and hands it back to me.

I take the 20 and put it back in the cap. I say.

Here you go Terry buy some booze or smack or whatever cranks your handle. Blow your hair back man.

Black-Whitey speaks through his teeth while unclipping the rope from the chrome pole.

Step out of line please ... Sir.

I walk past the pole so that Black-Whitey is in front of me. Hobo Terry is behind me. I make a hand signal that tells Largo do not fire. The girls who were standing in front of me start to look wary and back away. The asshole brigade behind take note and also begin to reverse. This tells me that this fucker must be The Bad Ass. The bad cop. Black-Whitey tells me.

I told you not to put the money in the hat. It encourages him.

Over my shoulder a strong smell and a 20 flutter towards me as Terry, hands shaking, tries to give me the money back. I swat his hand away.

Keep it.

Terry speaks with a booze voice.

I don't wants cause no trouble.

You're not causing trouble. Don't worry so much.

Black-Whitey pokes my chest. Says.

Tell me you're not causing trouble when it's plain you're a trouble causer. A big mouth.

You must be one of those tough guys I seen in films. Knock out artist. I mean you're a big guy, wrestler or something. Right?

Black-Whitey stares at me or something like a stare.

I like this. This is what I need in a place where Mickey Mouse and Goofy are lauded over. A place where they will drown in rivers of boiling Coca Cola while the apocalypse is sponsored by McDonalds. I hold my stare with Black-Whitey, this does not offend or intimidate me. He looks back over his shoulder at the other Cooler who grins with white teeth. White and straight. White like the moon. The small man with the clipboard looks over. He is either concerned or constipated. Black-Whitey turns back to me and says.

You're 86'd

I hit him in the solar plexus. I hit him as hard as my rage could summon. This is considerable. A rib is broken, I was slightly off target. I think a lung may have collapsed. His eyes roll back. He coughs. His lips crimson. He slumps. I take hold of his lapels and lower him to the asphalt beside the red carpet runway.

He coughs and groans. He is in a lot of pain. Lot of pain.

A girl screams.

I look up as white-teeth is upon me. He grabs my shoulder as I lean across Black-Whitey. I grab the hand of white-teeth and break his thumb. He is in a lot of pain. He jumps backwards and around erratically. Hopping like Tigger. Holding his fucked up hand with his good hand. He screams.

Fuuuuck. Fuuuuck.

He takes off between cars and onto Sunset Boulevard. Screaming. Fuuuuck. I listen to the night as it fades. I unclip the rope. Step back in line. The small man with the clipboard is gone. The cops won't be far. I need to be away from here.

A red light flashes my eyes. Someone I need to know about is here. It could be the cops, the line of people have moved away from me. I stand out in the crowd. Black-Whitey is passed out. Terry the hobo is gone. A white Lincoln Navigator pulls into one of the exclusive parking slots near the entrance. I have no time. I unclip the rope. Step over Black-Whitey and march over to the Lincoln. It's chrome. It's white. It fits.

Through the blacked out glass I see lights blink inside then disappear as the engine shuts down. A door opens on the drivers side. I go there first. I want to see a black guy wearing all white. He'll point out the other guy, I don't have all fucking night to see him sidle up to the target. I see a leg poke from the lower edge of the door. It's a sneaker and blue jeans. Shit. I change tack quickly and swing around towards the passenger side. As soon as I am out of the line of sight I pull the piece from my waistband. The passenger door is already wide open by the time I get there. I look inside, one of the Colombians, the one with the printed shirt is sat counting hundred dollar bills onto his thigh.

His eyes widen as he meets mine and recognition kicks in. His eyes then move from my face to my hand and then back again. He stops counting. Frozen. I speak.