by John Decure
“Some mighty bad acting,” I whisper.
The tussle on the sidewalk continues, the young cop having to tackle the man he’s chasing again, then the old cop comes wheezing up at long last, staggering over to the crook his partner just collared. Says something mean and nasty right into the crook’s face, growling like a mad dog.
“Who wrote this shit?” Ms. Aames whispers back. “Nobody talks like that.”
Then things got stranger and for a time, I needed my own list of what’s real and what’s not real, because honestly, I lost track.
I’d seen this cop-show scene a thousand times on TV and in the movies, and when the cuffs come out for the bad guy, the squad car—backup, they call it—appears and a door opens. Then they stuff the bad guy in the back seat and tha’s all folks! Scene over. But not this time.
Apparently the director got an itch he’d been wanting to scratch for a long time, or some writer was trying to win an award because instead of the squad car arriving to pack off the crook like usual, bright yellow muscle car, a Dodge Cobra I think, comes screeching up its tires smoking. The driver and passenger gotta be friends of the crook, because they jump out and start shooting at the cops while the crook on the pavement, he rolls away, trying to escape.
“Can you believe this?” I say to Ms. Aames, trying to sound tired of it, though I’m pretty damn excited because it really is quite a spectacle.
“There’s a man with a gun,” she says, calm but intense, like she’s back in court again. “Coming your way, Deshaun.”
They’re shootin’ it out, the actors, and in my head I’m still the tourist, having a ball just watchin’ this crazy scene. So I don’t connect what she’s saying with anything else.
“Hooray for Hollywood,” I say with a laugh.
Her face is tight with fear, a look I’ve never seen her wear in public. Now she’s making me wonder, as she steps closer to me and suddenly swings her big black bag up over her shoulder like she’s gonna throw it at me. I’m thinking: she’s lost it, all this commotion too much for her, poor crazy girl gotta keep her lists to stay off meds, but the visions, they just keep coming. But my first order of business is to avoid taking a whack from that bag she’s swinging, so I twist a little to my left, back toward the building and sidewalk, away from the gutter where the phony gun battle’s going on—and I see the ugly, rock-like head of Bulldog, not five feet from me, gun in his hand and that silver cap on his front tooth flashing, his grin so blank it was downright evil, right as he takes aim on my chest.
Ms. Aames, her bag got there first—to Bulldog’s gun, I mean—with her body following, her hips swiveling as she came in on him, and I can’t say I heard it go off, there was too much Hollywood shoot-’em-up going on not twenty feet away, like fireworks popping in puffs of white smoke. But in about a second and a half, I put it all together.
Bulldog had been following me like I thought he might. Saw the Hollywood people working on this scene, who knows? Probably all afternoon while we were in court. Seeing the fake shooting, Bulldog figured he could cap me right on the street and no one would even hear it and if they did, they’d think it’s part of the show anyhow, wouldn’t even blink an eye. Hey, this is LA, a city chock full of weird, anything-goes happenings, more than any other city I can think of, and there’s plenty of starry-eyed folks to go right along, hand in hand, with all the bizarre things that go down here every day. No one would even notice.
Then again, he may have planned nothing but to come looking for me down the street, coming out of the courtroom. Bulldog wouldn’t know when I’d be coming out, because he wouldn’t know when the trial would adjourn for the day. This all could’ve been nothing but dumb luck for him.
Either way, sure enough nobody noticed a thing out of place. Bulldog? He’s just another gangster got a tilt of the head for a sexy black-haired lady, thinks he a mack daddy. Or is he an actor? Even when Ms. Aames fell down on the pavement, almost landing on Bulldog, nobody suspected a thing.
When he realized he shot her, not me, he took stock and tried to regroup, but I was a step ahead of him.
In my head, I took a step back, though, back into the only karate dojo in Inglewood, sparring with Grand Master Nuuhiwa, which I did almost every day for five years, back in the sixties. Before I became an MP. See, I took a beatin’ during the Watts riots, just for asking some looter where he got a brand-new couch he was carrying down the road in broad daylight. I was just a kid who thought it was a funny thing to say but the looter didn’t. He put down the couch right as three of his buddies come along, stood in a circle around me, and beat the stuffing outta me just for fun. I was in the county hospital ICU for a week, walked funny because of a busted kneecap the whole next year, a daily reminder I couldn’t take care of myself the way I should’ve. So, I learned how to fight. Master Nuuhiwa taught me, all right, all the way through to a black belt. But he imparted a philosophy, too: how to seek peace in situations, how to avoid confrontations, defuse them before they escalate. Which I’ve been doing pretty well most of my life.
Not today.
I got at the gun first, prying it from Bulldog’s hand. He swung his free hand up to my throat and clutched, but my other hand caught his elbow from underneath and popped it out of joint. He screamed as my foot slammed down on his toes. His head shot down, and as it did I met his face with a hard knee. Chopped his neck for good measure, but by then he was going down, folding into a pile of hurt and confusion.
A retired cop on a motorcycle providing security for the Hollywood shoot came running over as I rolled Ms. Aames on her back, and I think he figured I was trouble till he saw the blood oozing onto the sidewalk beneath her. I yelled in his face to get an ambulance. Bulldog, he stayed down, too. I told the retired cop he’s a killer, shot the lady in cold blood, so get the police down here.
“You okay?” the cop asked me as I stared at a squirming Bulldog.
I was pumped out of my mind. “That boy comes around, I’m gonna deal with him with my bare hands, so please, get some backup.”
Ms. Aames, she had a wound above her hip, and I stuck my hand right over it, pressed down, and prayed for those sirens down the street to get here fast. The back of her head was bleeding, too, so I did the same, my arms spread like wings. Her breath came and went in rough hiccups, but it was steady enough. Her eyes, they were open and blinking up at me, clear as day.
“I got him,” I thought she said—although now, looking back on it, I think that may have been my own wishful thinking.
“Yes, ma’am,” I told her, “you surely did.”
22
DONALD FALLON, MEDICAL DOCTOR
“Terrence Heidegger!”
I had to stand up, wave, and bellow for my lawyer to see me, though I’d given him a ticket with the row and seat number. He sidestepped his way down the aisle, past a Staples Center usher and onto the hardwood floor, in shock, the only guy in wingtips to make this trip to the Golden Circle tonight. The courtside seats were filled as the game had started at least thirty minutes ago. Not that I was watching the young African American men and—ooh, look, for novelty, there’s a Russian seven-footer on the other squad!—their opponents at play, so close that we could reach out and touch them as they grunted and grinded through sweaty set pieces foreign to my eyes. You don’t come to a Lakers game to watch basketball unless you’re a fan, and a fan I am not.
“Sorry, got detained at the office.” He was out of breath from climbing over the well-heeled and street chic alike that flock to these Staples Center spectacles. “Wow. I think I just stepped on Adam Sandler’s feet. They’re… big.”
“Terrence, this is my entertainment lawyer, Trey Fox.” I was tickled as Heidegger sized up Trey, who’s tops in his field but sports long hair and a scruffy beard, as if he hauls the amplifiers for a rock group.
“Terrence Heidegger. Thank you very much for having me.”
Trey was cheering a basket or a steal or a jump ball—I don’t know—and didn’t remove his
sunglasses, which were shaped like granny glasses from a bygone era. He was dressed like a pirate, as usual.
“Howzit, man? Glad you could make it. This is Chase from Insite Cable. Thank him, they’re Insite’s seats.”
“Chase? A pleasure.”
“Hiya.”
Chase, the cable executive we’d met with to talk about my new show on their network, rolled out his meet-and-greet clasping handshake, which upon execution, looks like a giant clam snacking on fingers. Down here, in these floor seats, I’d seen the shake at least thirty times since we arrived. His suit was black with thin lapels and appeared as soft and body-fitting as a jumpsuit, the way he leaped to his feet to cheer and exulted with total strangers all around us when the Lakers were to be commended for their play. Custom, had to be worth thousands. No tie. Like a good teammate, Terrence was keeping up appearances but I could sense his discomfort with the general surroundings.
A glistening, chiseled hoop god swooshed past us, followed by two apt defenders. The god caught a pass, dropping his head in a fake charge but—no! Rearing back, forty feet from the goal, he lofted the ball toward the cavernous ceiling above where it arced gracefully into a perfect descent, splashing through the tiny orange hoop. The fans erupted. The cable exec and the pirate, who’d been snarling over some obscure term and condition an hour ago, high-fived each other like they’d just sacked an abundant port of call.
Sometimes I wish I didn’t live in this silly sycophantic town.
“Yeah, baby!”
But the feeling quickly passes.
My palm was smarting from the skin Trey slapped on me. “We need to talk,” I said quietly to Terrence, who was looking behind me, over my right shoulder. “I’m deeply concerned.”
“Oh my goodness.”
A wave of concern over my pending litigation with the state swept over me and I leaned closer, touching my legal counsel’s shoulder.
“Tell me.”
He regarded me quizzically for an instant, then smiled breathlessly.
“Salma Hayek is… wow, she’s a stunner!”
Sycophant City, meet your newest resident.
“Terrence. Please. Get a grip.”
“Sorry.”
“I mean it. I’m worried.”
“Mm-hmm.”
His eyes beamed like a pair of glazed doughnuts. Okay, so maybe inviting him here was a bad idea—but enough of this.
“Stop acting like such a goddamn tourist. You’re here to bring me up to date on—”
The last thing I needed was for Insite to get cold feet, so I lowered the volume and chose my words with care.
“—the uh, matter you’ve been working on.” Then I leaned in close and whispered, “I’m this close to securing a deal with the cable company for the new show. Chase’s staff apparently isn’t so strong in the due diligence department. They’ve yet to visit the medical board’s website. Or read the damn newspaper. Or, who knows? Perhaps they don’t care, as long as the show will draw viewers. Maybe a little Dr. Don danger will spice things up.”
“I wouldn’t bet on that.”
“At any rate, I’m sure as hell not going to bring it up. Remember, if he asks, you’re—”
“Don, please,” Heidegger interrupted. “I’ve got this. I’m your investment counselor.”
“Correct.” Despite the cacophony of applause, my mouth stayed so close to Terrence’s ear that I could have bitten it off. “Let’s begin with an obvious premise, shall we? The trial? Or should I say the ‘walk in the park.’”
He glowered at me. “That wasn’t necessary.”
“I think it’s apropos. We’re losing.”
“Not so fast. I say we’re right where we need to be.”
“How can that be? That lying bitch former patient told her side of things, more or less, and so did the former patient’s gutless wimp husband.”
“I roughed them both up good on cross. The judge gets the thrust of it now. She’s a disturbed woman, an unreliable witness, bent on revenge. He got his settlement money, which cements his bias against you. They’re far too compromised to be believed.”
“You’d better be right.”
“What I’m paid to do,” he said, sneaking another peek at Salma. “We’re golden.”
His distracted brand of confidence was less than infectious. I snapped my fingers in front of his face. “Come on, you’re killing me. What about Flaherty? You said he was out of the picture, and hence, so was the state’s case. What happened, Terrence? How did that psycho-witch prosecutor get a replacement so damned easily?”
Heidegger snorted. Just then a pampered millionaire from the inner city soared across the purple-painted floor and dunked the ball, bringing the fans around us to their feet.
“Monster jam!” Trey reported with glee.
Heidegger wasn’t used to having his chops busted. “Come on, Don,” he groaned. “Look what she dragged in, right off the psychiatric community’s garbage heap.”
“Seemed to me that fat ugly broad hit all her marks.”
“But that’s assuming facts that they can’t prove. It’s like saying Swiss cheese from the moon makes for a tasty fondue.”
I stared at him sideways.
“Don, if they don’t establish an evidentiary basis, it doesn’t matter what their expert says about outcomes.”
“You said that little bitch—” I remembered EJ and the Pirate Boy were parked at my left elbow, “that prosecutor could be intimidated. ‘Deterred.’”
“We tried. And we’re not done. She might dwell on the outer limits, but that girl’s resilient.”
“Excuses.”
“You’re not being fair.”
“I’m the client, Terrence. I don’t have to be fair.”
Sylvester Stallone breezed by, and my lawyer dutifully fell silent as if royalty was passing in an official pageant. God, I hate LA, but it feeds me, nourishes my sense of self in ways no other place can—or ever will.
“Not as tall as I thought he’d be,” Terrence commented.
“You kidding, he’s been Rocky in—what? Ten movies by now? In this town, he’s a giant on stilts.”
“These seats are amazing.”
“The investigator, Fellows? Why is he still in my life, Terrence?”
“We supplied him with an optimal exit strategy, but—”
“Exit strategy? This is… right now you sound absurd. I mean it. Just like with Flaherty, you promised the investigator would be out of the picture, headed to—where was it?”
Terrence’s shoulders slumped, which brought me no measure of comfort.
“Cajun country.”
“But lo and behold, there he was, on the witness stand!”
“I know, I know!” Trey shouted to me. “Alice in Wonderland!”
Terrence seemed aghast. “The hell was that?”
“He’s into the game,” I said. “Misunderstood what he heard. What about you? Am I getting through with sufficient clarity?”
“We’re still working on the investigator problem. Apparently he’s being pursued by a very dangerous man who would like nothing more than to… share a private moment with Mister Fellows. My associate has located the man—”
“Associate? Terrence, at this juncture I have no trust in that simpering suit-wearing associate of yours. He’s ineffective.”
“Don, please. He located the gentleman who’s looking for Fellows, did some fine work to that end. Supplied the man with some very useful information which should greatly aid him in his search.”
“It’s too late anyway. Fellows testified.”
“I know, Don. Remember, the state’s burden is high. They’re nowhere near it, and you’ve yet to even take the stand. My team has prepped you and we all know you’re going to give a stellar performance.”
“I don’t know. I’ve got to admit to compromising myself with the former patient.”
“It’s the best strategy. The AG and the board will be wishing they’d settled.” He patted my k
nee. “And don’t forget, our defense expert’s a pro. He’ll shred their case as well.”
Perhaps his reassurances should have been enough, but I have a sense about impending danger. That ominous, oh-shit feeling that had descended on me when I’d undressed that little bitch Bradlee Aames with my eyes and she locked in and bore her black irises right back through me, well—it hadn’t left me. Against my dominant Alpha Dog kick-ass-and-take-names persona’s standard practice and better judgment and all my lawyer’s verbal massaging, I was worried.
“Why are we at trial anyway?”
“Don, we’ve been over this part be—”
“I handed you a board insider, dammit, the president! How could you have botched the settlement?”
He glared at me. His face, with those giant liver spots on his forehead, resembled a worn-out frying pan.
“That one’s not on me, Doctor. He’s your ‘contact,’ and yet, he won’t return your calls.”
“Well, fix it. Call him yourself.”
“I’m not Superman.” He mulled in silence. Five feet away, a zebra-striped referee’s jutting ass briefly invaded our space before tooling off toward a screaming, spitting, Italian-suited coach. “But I’ll try.”
“Good. Do it.”
Heidegger gazed into the reflection of my sunglasses, which I’d absently put on as a shield of sorts when he was making excuses. “Say,” he said, “why is it so damn bright in this place? The house lights are on all the way up to the rafters.”
I didn’t have to be a basketball fan to know the answer.
“You’re in the land of the image-makers. People don’t come here to sit in the dark. No one can see you in bad light.”
That uneasy sense came over me again, and I pictured killing that bitch prosecutor, squeezing the life out of her, mangling her windpipe with my bare hands wrapped around her long lovely neck. Right after I’d tooled her within an inch of her feigned-rebel womanhood and she’d begged Dr. Donnie for more…
The home team did something noteworthy, bringing the crowd to its feet in roaring elation and foot-stomping ecstatic joy. A bevy of gorgeous young cheerleaders high-stepped and somersaulted into view. A sonorous announcer’s voice boomed in tones of orgasmic glory. I leaped up, too, but I was rooting to win my case against the medical board.
