“This is Lucky,” the detective answered.
“It’s Bleds,” replied the caller.
“What the hell?” said Lucky. “Where the hell you callin’ from?”
“My drunk-in-laws,” joked Lucky’s former training officer, Wayne Bledsoe. He’d been calling his wife’s parents the drunk-in-laws as long as Lucky could remember. “We’re wrapping up our eight crazy nights of Chanukah. You’ll never guess what they bought me.”
“A gym membership?”
“You’re no fun.”
“Just figured that out?”
“How’s your job status?”
“I’m employed. But you knew that or else you wouldn’t have called my burner number. You got the email?”
After his visit to Gonzo, Lucky had set about sending an email blast to every LA Sheriff’s deputy he could find on his contact list. It contained a snapshot of the HAVE YOU SEEN ME? artwork and a simple extra message: Cop to Cops. Please help a brother out.
“Gonna take a week to clean up the mess you made in Hollywood last night,” guffawed Bledsoe.
“You taught me that trick.” Lucky switched the phone to his other hand, not missing a beat to slip a few flyers underneath the windshields of cars parked along Wilshire.
“Christ, I did, didn’t I? Whose mugs did we paper Ghetto-town with?”
“Whose didn’t we?” Lucky’s mind shot back to the days of uniforms and nights in the black-and-whites. Bledsoe, tired of rolling miles off their radio unit’s rubber to track down a pair of Crips wanted on drive-by charges, pulled into an all-night copy shop and dropped some plastic to pay for a few reams of enlarged mug shots on colored paper.
“Red for Crips. Blue for Bloods. Copy place loved our asses,” said Bledsoe.
The duo papered ten square blocks of Compton. Phones may not have rung off the hook, but all it took was one call from a five-year-old latchkey kid who knew how to dial his uncle’s kitchen phone and—presto bingo—the first suspect was bagged. Over the year, they’d repeated the procedure with a modicum of success until a non-local environmental group looking to clean the ghetto of garbage-choked gutters decided the local sheriffs were enemy number one from all the tree pulp they were flushing to garner tips on gangbangers’ whereabouts. A memo was generated from the downtown tower: there would be no more littering poorer neighborhoods with the unwanted wanted posters. Deputies Dey and Bledsoe were required to return to their previously proven methods of intel-gathering, aka, cracking gang member heads.
“The bad ol’ days,” joked Bledsoe.
“Your eight crazy nights not entertaining enough?” pressed Lucky.
“You mean why’d I call your burner?”
“Not that I don’t love catching up. But I’ve got plans to litter in multiple municipalities.”
“Right,” segued Bledsoe. “DT outta Carson—my brother-in-law’s second cousin once whatever—met him a coupla times. Member of the tribe, you know?”
“He’s Jewish?” confirmed Lucky.
“And family. Anyway, somebody on somebody’s friend’s list posted an email on some kinda social media thing. Says he’s seen your girl.”
“Wait. My HAVE YOU SEEN ME?”
“What you’re littering the city and email boxes with. Yeah.”
“And the guy recognized my missing girl?”
“Best I could get was, ‘Looks familiar,’ is what my brother-in-law said.”
“Pretty, blonde, and fifteen,” deadpanned Lucky. “That’s like half the teens in Redondo.”
“Your girl,” said Bledsoe. “She some kinda dancer?”
Lucky was halfway across Santa Monica Boulevard. He wanted to put the brakes to his Vibram soles, switch ears and confirm whether he’d heard his old training officer correctly. Then under a set of flashing headlights, he hustled safely to the other side.
“You ask if she danced?” asked Lucky. “Yeah. My girl’s got a dance thing according to her old man.”
“The guy says if it was her, she was working as a party dancer.”
“That somethin’ like a stripper?”
“Exactly what I asked him. But no. You know. Bar mitzvahs and shit. Birthday parties. Sweet sixteens. DJ brings dancers to pimp the party, get all the fat asses moving.”
“Like you.”
“This fat-ass stopped dancin’ at my first wedding,” laughed Bledsoe. “Let’s say the music hasn’t moved me since.”
“Got a number for this second cousin-in-law—or whatever he is?”
“Nothin’ that close, but if you call the station I think he’s on tonight.”
“Thanks, yeah.”
“Name’s Mikey Blumenthal. Got that?”
“I’m good.” Lucky clicked off with the practiced press of his thumb. He pocketed the burner and carried on handing out flyers until Bledsoe’s text came through with the Carson Station detective’s digits. In those fleeting moments, Lucky quickly calculated the odds that this one tip would lead to a case-closing recovery. A hundred to one? A thousand? Ten thousand?
Higher, you detective dumb ass.
“Probably,” Lucky muttered to himself as he waited five rings until a voice picked up.
“Detectives’ desk,” announced the male voice, dull and rote.
“Lookin’ for Michael Blumenthal,” said Lucky, hoping he’d already found him.
“Out chasin’ guns,” said the man. “Lemme send you to his voicemail.”
“You got a cell phone for him?” asked Lucky.
“Who’s this?”
“Name’s Lucky Dey. Used to work outta Lennox.”
“You on the job?”
“I’m in the middle of transferring back from Kern.”
“Yeah, man,” said the voice. “I heard of you.”
“Cool,” said Lucky. “What’s your name?”
“My name’s none of your fuckin’ business.”
The shift in tone was more than a tell to Lucky. It rose to the level of familiar. As in beef-worthy.
“We met, brother?” asked Lucky.
“Ain’t no brother,” said the voice. “Least not to no Reaper.”
“Right,” said Lucky, instantly resigned. But only by habit. Sheriffs inked with Reaper tattoos had reputations. Some deserved. Others lumped into the exclusive club as if they were crack-slinging gang members. No better than Crips or Bloods.
“Got me at a disadvantage,” excused Lucky. “You know about me but I don’t know dick about you. How ’bout you give me Mikey Blumenthal’s mobile and we’ll call it even?”
“Shove that evil tat up your Reaper ass,” finished the voice before hanging up.
The rebuff could have stung more. But Lucky was, at worst, only mildly aggravated. He had bumped egos with plenty of bullet-headed deputies over nonsense from turnkey duties to crosstown college football picks. Then there were the Reapers. That small cabal of Lennox cops, each inked and numbered and sworn to its own unholy oath. Blood brothers in a war against street cops. Yet Lucky never wondered—had he been able to calculate the antipathy a single tat would inspire amongst fellow officers—whether or not he would have balked at accepting the Reapers’ invitation. Truth was if he were on his deathbed and counting, joining the Reapers’ ranks would have been the very last of Lucky’s regrets.
He was, though, facing a dilemma. The call had left him still without a cell number to contact the Carson deputy. The solve had three prongs. One, he could dial every cop he knew who worked in the southern Basin to see if they or anybody they knew would have Mike Blumenthal’s digits on their smartphone. Two, he could back-burner the semi-flimsy tip Bledsoe had passed along until tomorrow when the fat man could deliver the actual contact info. Or three, he could cut to the chase, point the borrowed Crown Vic toward the city of Carson, and sniff around for the crew of deputies out chasing around for guns.
17
Hollywood.
Nine o’clock had come and gone. This left Cherry Pie and her new roomie, Valeriana, standing on the si
dewalk outside the Franklin Avenue audition space, otherwise known as The Casting Place. Mobile phone glued to her hand, Cherry checked the time again, igniting the screen and using up what little power she had left.
“So tell me why I had to come?” asked Karrie—aka Valeriana. “Is it gonna stay this wet all winter? Thought it never rained here.”
The December misting had morphed into a steady drizzle. With Cherry’s car parked around the corner, both girls were huddled under an eighty-year-old pepper tree that had been planted long before the old stucco apartment building had been converted into a commercial space. The roots, some of which had surfaced in search of water, had made a mess of the sidewalk, cracking and separating the concrete like a stale cookie. While occasionally pinching her dampened sweatshirt from her skin, Karrie kept her twitchy legs warm by balancing her toes at the edge of one of those root-caused fissures and slowly lowering her heels for a calf stretch.
“Give him ’til nine thirty, okay?” said Cherry.
“Your call,” said Karrie. “I’m just along for the free coffee.”
“Should try the door again,” said Cherry. “Maybe he parked in back and is waiting for us.”
“You just did that then minutes ago.”
“That was ten minutes ago. He coulda parked by now.”
“He blew us off,” said Karrie.
“I didn’t get that kinda vibe from him.”
“What kinda vibe is that?”
“I dunno. The blow-me-off kind I guess. He’s a for real casting director.”
“I’ll check,” said Karrie, finally so chilled she was willing to test anything in order to hurry the process along.
She skipped up the brick steps to a pair of double doors with tin veneer tacked on to throw an industrial spin on the property. The knob, aged and bronze-looking, appeared like it would be cold to the touch. This is why Karrie hesitated giving it a tug. She instinctively paused, rubbed her hands together until she felt the friction, then stretched her fingers for the knob. Inches from her fingertips, beyond her grasp, it was if the door magically unlocked. Karrie heard a bolt thrown and, without so much as her touching the door, it swung inward.
“…Oh, hi,” said Karrie without thinking, a strangely embarrassed smile spreading across her freckled face.
“You again?” grinned Gabe.
“Yeah, me,” shivered Karrie. “Me ’n’ my friend down there were supposed to meet some casting dude.”
“From the other day?” asked Gabe. “That same guy?”
“Guess so, yeah. Was just checkin’ to see if maybe he’s inside.”
“Just me,” shrugged the photographer. “Sorry. Was just doin’ a last once around and saw you.”
“Saw me?”
Gabe eased into the threshold, his dark brown mop of hair coming into shaggy relief under the door lamp—friendly dimples in full articulation despite his beard. He snuck a look upward and to the left.
“Right up there,” he said.
Karrie tracked Gabe’s eyes up into the dark corner of the overhang and the lens of a hooded security camera mounted above and to the right.
“Oh,” said Karrie with a girlish giggle.
“Sure he said to meet here?” asked Gabe. “Kinda late.”
“I’m just along for the ride.” Karrie gestured to Cherry Pie, fifty yards away and finding only mild protection under that sprawling, overgrown pepper tree.
“Again, huh? Just hitchin’ along.”
“This one’s a callback.”
“Nothin’s scheduled here,” said Gabe. “But if you guys wanna hang out inside, I can stick around till you figure what’s what.”
Karrie left Gabe at the door, skipped back down the steps and relayed the conversation to Cherry Pie. Pissed off at being stood up, Cherry thought she’d had enough of waiting and thought a better use of her time would be to work off her frustration in a late night dance class before her scheduled spins on the stripper pole. As per her usual generosity, Cherry offered to bring Karrie along to the class or the club or both.
“Think I’ll hang out of awhile…” Karrie tilted her head toward the cracked door of the casting space. “Just in case your casting guy comes by.”
“Right, whatever.” Cherry rolled her eyes and fished in her purse. “Need any condoms?”
“Shut up!”
“He’s cute. You’re cute. Shit happens.”
“See you back at your place?”
“Remember where the key is?”
“Inside the garden gnome.”
Cherry Pie gave the fifteen-year-old a sisterly squeeze, then tried to beat the heavier drizzle to her car around the corner. That’s when she felt the first pang of panic. Without thinking, she glanced back over her shoulder to make sure the girl she knew as Valeriana was safe. Karrie had already disappeared inside the building. As for Gabe, she only glimpsed him for a heartbeat, scanning the street before shutting the business door behind himself.
She’s her own girl, Cherry thought to herself. Not even a full-on roommate. Yet still, she was young and if Cherry had to pick a little sister to care for, why not the sweet strawberry blonde teenager whose dad drove an Audi?
Cherry smiled. Maybe she’d inadvertently found herself a new roomie. The idea squelched whatever worry she’d only just contemplated. How was Cherry to know she would never see the girl again?
18
10:24 P.M.
“Chasing guns?”
“What it’s called,” answered Lucky. He’d met up with Andrew somewhere in the middle of the Third Street Promenade. The first thing he’d noticed was that much of Andrew’s flyer stack remained intact, trapped beneath his arm. This made Lucky wonder, what the hell Andrew had been doing for the past hour.
“But you say this guy saw my Karrie?” pressed Andrew.
“It’s a lead. But slim at best,” confirmed Lucky. “I don’t have the guy’s cell number so what I’m gonna do is get down to Carson, find the guy, and hear what he has to say face-to-face.”
“Well, let’s go,” said Andrew.
“Huh uh,” stalled Lucky. “Cover more ground if you stay here, finish up with your stack. I’ll get down south, find out what I can, double back and pick you up—”
“You want me to finish my stack?”
“Got some left there, dontcha?” Eyebrows raised, index finger extended with his thumb cocked like an accusatory gun, Lucky left little room for subtext.
Andrew’s face flushed. He held out the stack of unexpended flyers, cocked his elbow, and like a spring-loaded pitching machine, fired the sheets of paper into the atmosphere.
“So how many do I have now?” smiled Andrew.
“That’s not gonna help find your girl.”
“Here’s what we’re gonna do,” insisted Andrew. “Both of us are gonna get in the car and drive to wherever-the-heck and find this gun guy.”
Lucky clocked a vertical vein formed in a jagged stripe down Andrew’s forehead. When he had spoken, his teeth, slightly yellowed from years of tobacco use, were bared to the gums. But in the past few days, the cop hadn’t witnessed a single moment when Andrew had so much as excused himself for a smoke or spit. Lucky found himself pondering if Andrew was a nicotine addict in need of a fix.
If Andrew was committed to riding up front in the big boy seat, Lucky would consent. Hell. He might start to like this guy.
“You ride with me to Carson?” dealt Lucky. “It’s what I say and when I say it.”
“What’s the big deal about this Carson place?”
“Gangbanger Alley,” said Lucky. “You’ll see.”
The task force that “chased guns” was a hodgepodge of detectives who, on random calendar nights, would gas up their unmarked radio cars and hunt for suspicious young black men. Loitering on corners or crowding storefronts. Cruising in groups of three or more. It was acutely profiling. The South County Sheriff’s equivalent of “stop and frisk.” The “male usuals” were clocked and stopped for one of a litany of
violations the deputies had at their disposal. Those young men were searched and their cars turned. It wasn’t much work. The cops knew the players and who would usually be holding. Drugs were the entrée. But gathering up hardware was the point of the exercise. Gangbangers with guns were usually trigger-happy and looking for trouble. So sending a phalanx of detectives out on random nights to vacuum up street weapons was supposed to have a suppressive effect on gang crime.
“Wow,” remarked Andrew, once he’d heard Lucky’s explanation of chasing guns. “Talk about your civil rights violations.”
Lucky didn’t answer with more than a smirk. The windshield wipers of the Crown Vic were engaged, streaking across the glass in a barely effective attempt to flush it of moisture.
“Ever think of replacing your windshield wipers?” It was more of a comment than a question.
“Not my car,” said Lucky.
“It never rains in Southern California,” Andrew sang.
“Not true. But not far off. Sun bakes the rubber and wipers go bad quicker than you can say Pep Boys.”
The residential streets of West Compton were tree-lined and blanketed in darkness. Streetlights were few. So what little illumination there was came from flickering porch lamps, the occasional uncurtained window, and the Crown Vic’s sweeping high beams, igniting the asphalt that rolled underneath the car’s wheels like an ever-moving carpet.
Andrew marveled at the way Lucky was able to navigate the urban grid. He was a like backwoods pathfinder, not caring for street names and stop signs, but using landmarks to carve his turns deeper into this “hood.” Mangled mailboxes, tree stumps, buckled sidewalks, a corner liquor store. These were signposts Lucky and every other Reaper had memorized down to the knots on a strip of faded redwood fencing.
Then there were the memories. They rolled past the apartment door front where Lucky had been blind-sided by a knife-wielding granny protecting her son from a domestic abuse arrest.
The Lucky Dey Thriller Series: Books 1-3 (The Lucky Dey Series Boxset) Page 39
