by Kurt Douglas
“Say it,” Frank growled into the phone as he squeezed harder.
He echoed, his voice amplifying, “SAY IT.”
He shook his arm each time he spoke, sending a jolt of pain into Felicia’s frail neck with each short word. His thin, black tie dangled in her face.
“SAY IT,” he snarled.
Felicia’s breath cracked and popped as she struggled to take air into her lungs. Her gasps were loud. She tried to push against Frank, batting at his hands with weak swats. The dangling of her cuffs slowed as her struggles tired, the last bits of life making their way from her lungs.
“Your rules, Frank,” Dalton finally broke. “Still & Wersner in Woodland Hills. Hurry on over, Mr. Black. You give me my daughter and no one gets hurt.”
“That’s fucking right,” Frank affirmed as he hung up the phone.
He let go of Felicia’s neck. She tilted her head upward, showing off the handprint. The broken blood vessels were already bursting in patches of red over her slender neck.
“Doll,” he whispered as he helped her to her feet, “I hope you know I’d never.”
Glaring at Frank, she narrowed her eyes and cooed in a strained whisper, “I kinda liked it, Tiger.”
She coughed and spit, the wad landing on Frank’s boot.
Wiping her lips on her shoulder, she tossed her hair to one side and rasped, “You know I like it rough.”
Frank shook his head as he brushed her hair from her face. As he looked over the marks he’d left on her neck, footsteps started in the hall. Frank tossed her hair back over the red print and pulled her close just as an orderly poked in and looked about the room.
Noticing the two in the corner, the man announced, “Visiting hours are over. Unless you’re family, you need to leave.”
Frank gestured his compliance and shot a look at Felicia.
“Time to go, Sweetheart,” he said through clenched teeth, then whispered, “Be a good girl now and no funny business.”
Frank urged her into the hall, holding her close to him as they traversed the near empty hall to the elevator at the far end of the wing. In front of the mirrored, metal doors, Felicia stood in a pout like a small child who’d just been caught shoplifting candy from the local grocer. She held her hands at her waist, her shoulders rolled forward and her head facing the floor. Her hair hung in her face. The right shoulder of her tank top had worked its way downward, revealing the pink lace of her bra. She pursed her lips and forced out a breath of air, sweeping her long bangs from her face.
The elevator chimed and Frank shoved her in. She bounced against the shiny back wall, her hair exploding in a puff of curls as she steadied herself on the rail and whirled around to face Frank. He stepped forward. Without taking his eyes off her, he reached his hand toward the panel of buttons behind him and pressed, Ground.
Just as the doors began to close, a nurse interrupted them, rolling an empty wheelchair into the elevator. Felicia forced herself against Frank, pushing her wrists against his waist.
The nurse nodded to Frank who was facing the wrong way, and pressed the button for the lowest floor. He tried not to look them over. After all, they got all types in the hospital and who was he to judge? The doors slid shut and the few remaining sounds of the nurse’s station vanished into the tinny jazz of elevator music.
Frank pressed himself tighter into Felicia, hiding the cuffs from view. Her hands were pressed against his crotch. Which gave her the perfect opportunity to go back to work on getting herself freed. Her fingers started on Frank’s pants again, fondling the bulge behind the fabric with slow strokes.
Batting at her hands, Frank feigned a smile to the nurse and turned his attention to the singing clarinet, quiet trumpet and hollow bass beaming from the tiny speakers overhead. Frank bobbed his head up and down.
“This is my jam,” he said into the top of Felicia’s head.
She returned his words with a blank face.
“What is it?” she sneered.
Frank’s head stopped. Looking down on Felicia with a grimace, he said, “You’ve gotta be kidding. Kids these days. Everyone’s gotta love a little Davis.”
His head returned to its bob as he looked to the nurse for confirmation.
“I love Miles Davis,” the nurse chimed in. “Your dad has good taste.”
Frank narrowed his eyes as the elevator chimed once more.
“This is our floor,” Frank said with a tug of the cuffs.
As they exited into the empty lobby, Frank shrugged off his coat and tossed it over her hands.
“Hold my coat.” He smiled and nudged her forward.
“Walk,” he said, pushing his hand into the small of her back.
Felicia walked forward. Her hands were hidden by the black wool jacket folded over her wrists and hanging to her knees. The front doors whispered open and they walked across the emergency drive and into the parking lot.
The black asphalt was dotted with irregular circles of light and lamps buzzed overhead like rows of swarming bees. Frank pushed her forward, guiding her past the employee parking lot and to the hedge-lined back of the lot. At the row of bushes, Felicia stopped and turned to say something, but Frank put his fingers to his lips, indicating, “Don’t talk.”
Then he pushed her forward through a space in the hedge and onto the sidewalk. He walked her down the street to a restaurant on the corner. The neon sign flickered and flashed red and blue high over the street, strobing the words Pico Fresh. Three flashing arrows pointed down toward the Spanish-tiled roof, casting glimpses of colorful, elongated shadows across the rippled gray pavement. Inside, the chairs were stacked atop the tables and the lights were clicking off one by one. Fresh corn tortillas dominated the air as Frank and Felicia entered the small parking lot behind the restaurant.
It wasn’t lit like the hospital’s lot. It was dark and nearly empty. Frank’s Ambassador sat alone in the far corner of the lot, painted in shadows. As they crossed to his car, the back door of Pico Fresh burst open. Frank ignored the bustle of kitchen workers as they flooded through the doors.
His keys had just entered the door and clicked up the lock on the passenger door as Felicia’s legs began kicking. She threw herself to the pavement and sprawled out the best she could. Thrashing her legs, she flopped up and down like a fish out of water. Her writhing motions tangled Frank’s jacket around her waist, binding her arms tighter to her side.
“Rape!”
Felicia screamed the words as she tried to escape the wool coat. She turned on the water works and tears flowed behind her curdling screams.
She cried out again, “Rape!”
She was a pretty good actress. Tears poured from her big blue eyes and it wasn’t long before the mascara started to run and she actually looked the part. It was enough of a show to catch the attention of the fat Mexican line cook and six of his buddies.
“Goddammit,” Frank breathed as they looked over.
“Hey,” the Mexican shouted to his friends, “Miren! Que hace a esa chica?”
Frank threw his hands up and backed away from Felicia who had finally freed herself from his coat.
“I’m not raping her,” he said to the approaching group of men tired from a long shift in the kitchen.
Felicia scooted ’til her back was pressed against Frank’s whitewall tire. They looked to the teary-eyed blonde girl who was shaking her head back and forth and holding up her chained hands.
“Help me,” she cried and let the tears flow again.
“Not what she says,” another of the men shouted, turning to face Frank.
The fat man in the lead spoke again.
“Just let her go,” he said.
Frank replied in a whisper on the verge of a growl, “I can’t do that.”
He dropped to a knee and reached for his coat. Tucking it over his arm, he fished out his wallet.
Flipping it open he recited, “Frank Black, PD.”
The group back up. A few of them nodded and there was a moment of
silence.
Then the big one snatched the wallet from Frank, saying, “Let me see that.”
Frank grabbed for the wallet but the burly cook was already holding up to his moustache, squinting down into the folds of the leather.
“Miren,” he said, “Esta es una deli carta. It’s not a badge.”
He laughed out loud to his friends and held the wallet up, shaking it, saying, “Es un imán para el refrigerador.”
Frank smiled and took a step back.
“Let her go,” another of the men hissed.
“I can’t do that,” Frank repeated to the crowd.
Felicia whimpered behind him, wrapping her cuffed wrists over her knees and hugging herself as she continued her show.
Then Frank saw one of the busboys, a skinny Mexican with a blue cap backwards on his head. He darted out from behind the big oaf. His fist was full of a serrated blade.
Frank threw his jacket in the air, arching the folds over the fat man’s head and slammed his open palms into the side of his bulging head, boxing his ears. Stomping downward, Frank collapsed the outside of the fat man’s knee, sending him to the ground with a muffled scream.
The glint of metal darted past Frank’s cheek. Ducking, he threw his elbow upward, knocking the butt of the blade and sending the knife into the air. His leg followed through in one solid motion, sweeping the busboy in the ankles and sending him backwards into the crowd. Three fell under the flailing limbs of the busboy.
Frank stood while they struggled over each other. All but the fat man, he still held his knee as he twisted on the ground, crying beneath Frank’s coat. Stepping back, Frank held his fists up. His left bobbed before his cheekbone and his right held firm below his jaw. He perched his body on the balls of his feet, bobbing up and down and stepping back and forth as though his boots were made only of springs. His eyes darted back to the car. Confirming Felicia was still watching her little drama play out, he turned back to the crowd.
The cook’s kneecap and the busboy’s elbow were sign enough that one-on-one wasn’t going to cut it. The five men advanced on Frank, piling on him. They tackled him like a frontline and dropped him to the cracked pavement. Frank felt the searing hot pain as his ankle twisted beneath the weight. He felt the sting as their elbows and fists barraged his ribcage. He gasped as one of the ribs cracked beneath the pressure. The pain was enough to make him move. Frank’s hands reached for the first thing they could grab. Finding a hunk of meat he could hold, he twisted as hard as he could and pulled. Fabric ripped as Frank felt warm liquid flow over his fist. Then he pulled again and let go of the wet mass. Screams radiated in the huddle as one of the men crawled away, gasping and clutching his side. Blood spurted from between his fingers, pooling in the fabric of his flannel shirt, streaking the ground in red as he scooted across the lot.
Frank moved again. This time his jabbed upward. His straightened fingers met the rounded lump of an Adam’s apple and Frank pressed forward. The man’s neck crunched loudly beneath the blow. Another squirmed from the pile, this one gasped for air holding his throat. His breaths rapid and shallow, he tried to clamber to his feet but failed.
Now three men had Frank on the ground. The largest of them delivered two blows to Frank’s face before Frank could roll away. Free of his falling punches, Frank latched his legs around the big Mexican and twisted, sending him reeling to the pavement. His skull met the concrete with a fleshy thud.
Only the busboy and a skinny guy with a thin mustache remained. The two men still standing backed away and took their stances. Holding up their fists in a standard boxing style, they started for Frank. The busboy threw a wild left-handed punch. Frank dipped low and met his upper gut with an open palm, sending the busboy down with a low groaning hiss. Pivoting on his good ankle, Frank threw the back of his leg across the chest of the skinny guy, dropping him to the pavement like a sack of rocks.
The seven men were scattered across the small parking lot. Frank’s coat lay at his feet and Felicia still huddled against the tire of his Ambassador. The big Mexican cook had made his way to the other end of the lot and the rest of his coworkers were gravitating toward him.
“Scram,” Frank shouted, waving his hand at them. “I can keep going. And you don’t want that.”
He huffed and puffed as he wiped spit from his lip and sweat from his brow. He shifted his collar, loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt, revealing the black Kevlar beneath. Blood dripped from his right sleeve as he gripped his fists and took his agile stance again, shifting the weight from his sore ankle.
The six men hugged their bruises and held their wounds, huddling together like a group of penguins in the cold. They looked Frank over. Then they looked at each other. After a brief mumbling between them, the group scattered to their various vehicles that lined the street. One simply walked down the way to the bus stop at the corner, arriving just in time to limp onto the next bus.
Frank lifted his tie over his head and let it drop. Then he shed his shirt and turned to Felicia. Her mouth was agape and her eyes were wide. If only she’d have waited in line, purchased a ticket, sat through forty minutes of advertisements and swapped the cuffs for popcorn, you’d think she was watching the climax of an action film at the local multiplex.
“You’re quite a man,” she said, out of breath, panting almost.
Frank slumped his shoulders and narrowed his eyes. He picked up his coat and fished his Pall Malls from the pocket. Glaring at the crumpled pack, he peeled back the top. Amongst the broken cigarettes, he found one intact and put it to his lips. He lit his cigarette, threw his coat over his naked shoulder and swept his wallet off the ground. Hugging his ribs, he limped across the lot. His biceps still bulged. His veins still ran thick with blood.
“Dammit,” he seethed as he noticed the long, serrated blade sticking from his flattened rear tire.
He yanked Felicia up by the cuffs and threw open the passenger door.
“Stay,” he growled, tossing her in the bucket seat.
Frank opened the trunk, pulling out a fresh shirt. He slid it on and buttoned it up. It didn’t take him much time to jack up the car and toss off the ruined tire. Once he replaced it with the full-sized spare, Frank took his seat behind the wheel.
Tossing his cigarette out the window, he turned to Felicia and said, “We have to make a few stops.”
Chapter 18
The Warner Center office park was a ghost town of dark skyscrapers punctuated with the occasional row of lit offices high above the street. The sidewalks were lined with young acacia trees poking up from the stone and concrete mosaics on the walkways. Rolling knolls of grass black with shadow separated the buildings from the street.
Felicia sat in the front seat, her hands tucked between her legs. Frank’s smoldering Pall Mall filled the car with smoke.
“Mind rolling that down,” Felicia coughed.
Frank narrowed his eyes and gripped the chrome handle on his door. With a twist, he cracked the window. Smoke spiraled into the night and Frank turned up the radio.
Turning left on Oxnard, the Ambassador lurched to a stop between two cones of light. Coltrane flittered off the radio as the headlights blinked out. Silence took the night. Frank tossed open his door and stepped into the open air.
Leaning back, he said, “Stay.”
He moved to the rear of the car. Frank rubbed his jaw and kneaded his ribs as he lit another cigarette with the butt of his last. He rested his back against his trunk and crossed his legs. He ran his hand through his thick, black hair while his eyes moved up and down the street. A handful of lamps down the road, an unlit concrete marquee marked the entrance of Still & Wersner Insurance Company.
This side of Oxnard was lined in stout hills of black and green ivy. It was an older part of the business center. The trees were taller and there were more of them. Norway maples instead of acacias because they brought shade, lots of it, and it was before we all knew about the havoc they wreaked on the concrete. Cracked and uneven, the
sidewalk lifted and dipped over the network of roots that stretched beneath them. The street was no better. Potholes and hills made up the old, gray pavement all the way to De Soto.
Something about this side of the Valley made it hotter, ten to twenty degrees hotter than the rest of the Valley on average. The sun spent all day cooking up the oil and tar on the street and even in the late evening, the air was still thick, hot and sticky.
“Frank,” Felicia called out from the passenger seat.
Frank ignored her and climbed atop the trunk. Standing tall, he looked across the tree line at the complex of buildings that made up SAWICO. Turning all around, he took note of the various parking garages and office buildings that poked up from above the maples.
“Frank,” Felicia said again. “I have to pee.”
Frank shrugged at the words. Across the way and between two giant blocks of stacked parking, the symphony of lights that was the northwest Valley played and danced. Intersections blinked green and red and yellow. Cars zigged and zagged, streaming through the streets. The veins of pulsing lights grew from the shadows of the hills in the west and the north and sprawled eastward all across the San Fernando Valley. Billboards and signs glinted in the distance as the windows of homes traded glows. The night was empty and clear—not a cloud or a star in the sky. Just a vague haze of silvery smog reflected over the city, dancing above the shadowy mountains.
Frank stared out over the sparkling movement of the Valley, ignoring Felicia and slowly smoking his cigarette until headlights broke the darkness of his peripheral vision. The two beams pulled to a stop behind the Ambassador and went black. Frank jumped to the ground as Rick Stromwell emerged from the gold and blocky late ’80s Volvo.
“Frank,” said Rick with a nod.
Frank’s eyes went right for Dicky’s feet.
“Sandals?” Frank winced. “Can’t even put on proper footwear for a job? You are getting old.”
Rick kicked one foot up at Frank and smiled wide with a shrug and a shake of the ankle.
“You don’t got me climbing anything do you?”
