The Trouble In Dogflat Hollow

by Cameron Sword

  “Los Angeles. We’re in Los Angeles.” Pumpkin Eater offered as correction.

  “I said, get lost!” Rocco shouted as he fired a silenced warning shot over Jon’s head.

  “Will vain words have no end? Go. And take my mercy with you.”

  Fed up, Rocco took dead aim this time. Pumpkin Eater cowered. But with a wave of his hand, Jon transformed Rocco’s gun into a wriggling fish. It was either that – perform a miracle – or spend his final three days resurrecting. Jon had no choice.

  Rocco dropped the fish, stumbling back in complete disbelief – complete disbelief – before turning and beating a hasty retreat into the night. Pumpkin Eater was not impressed.

  “Did your mother not warn you about miracle dispensation?”

  Jon disregarded him and checked on Grace. She was still out cold.

  Virginia listened to the CEO’s voice, her arms and face crossed.

  “Okay wait, I’ve got another one. This priest walks into a bar—”

  “Obviously, you’re hoping to bore me to the point where I give up and leave. Wrong.” Virginia said, berating him.

  Suddenly, the room shook with the force of a mild earthquake. Enough to rattle the nerves, but nothing overly significant. The CEO’s voice took on a more serious tone.

  “What the…? That felt like a miracle.”

  “Stop trying to change the subject.”

  “That was a miracle.” the CEO exclaimed, sure of it now.

  “It could’ve been, but it was a small one, and small ones occur every now and again. Might’ve been that Mother Teresa character in Calcutta you’re always gushing over. Whoever was responsible, you’ll have plenty of time to look into it later. Let’s get back on topic. What do I really mean to you anyway? Get specific.”

  The CEO heaved a sigh.

  Jon hovered over Grace, gently brushing the hair from her face, unable to take his eyes off her. Unbeknownst to him for the time being, a loose strand of her hair tangled around his finger.

  Buddy emerged from the dumpster, wide-eyed, producing his Polaroid and rushing over to snap a picture of the used-to-be-gun-now-fish.

  “Holy shit. I mean, gee whiz. That was unbelievable.”

  “She’s bleeding. We need to get her to a doctor.” Jon announced.

  “A doctor? Aren’t you the best healer that ever was?” asked Buddy.

  Grace finally came to.

  “No. No doctors. Leave me alone.”

  She sat up, disoriented and confused, massaging her swollen cheek, unfocused eyes trying to focus… trying to deal with the pain, mumbling curses and obscenities and…

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “Uh-oh, I think she’s on to us.” Buddy warned, anxious all of a sudden.

  Grace’s eyes finally focused sufficiently to see Jon’s caring face staring back at her – and she frowned. A recognition frown. Where had she seen him before?

  BOOM! BOOM! Click! That’s when Tony arrived on the scene, shooting, and that shotgun of his was only temporarily jammed.

  Events unfolded very quickly now. Grace ducked, searching for cover, coming up with Foster’s gun as she scampered around a corner, disappearing into the night.

  Buddy jumped into the dumpster again.

  Jon scooped up the briefcase, taking Pumpkin Eater by the elbow, trying desperately to usher them both to safety before Tony managed to unjam his weapon. BOOM! High velocity ten gauge shotgun pellets blew a gaping hole in the dumpster, barely missing Jon and Pumpkin Eater as they fled. Buddy peeked back out through the gaping hole in time to watch them disappear, Tony hot on their heels.

  Jon and Pumpkin Eater scrambled out onto a street to witness Grace jumping into a cab. I just lost some of you right about now, I know, because you’re thinking, wait a minute, it’s impossible to hail a cab in Los Angeles – and you’re right. There are only two ways to get a cab in that town. Either you call in advance and schedule one to come to you, or you find a place where they’re idling in a queue waiting for people to emerge from some sort of venue. This was one of those places.

  Grace’s cab pulled away as Jon and Pumpkin Eater hurried into a cab of their own. The cabbie glanced over his shoulder to see a pair of toga-wearing passengers – and it didn’t faze him a bit. Not in this part of the city. It was also loud out there, music pumping out into the street from said venue.

  “Where to, fellas?” the cabbie shouted over the noise.

  “Follow that conveyance.” Jon responded, as he and Pumpkin Eater both flashed credit cards in the cabbie’s face. Pumpkin Eater gave Jon a quick sidelong glance, which meant, that’s right, I’ve got one too, you’re not anything special.

  “Sorry, guys. I don’t take American Express.” replied the cabbie.

  BOOM!

  The cab’s front grill suddenly exploded, hood flying open. Terrified, the cabbie shifted into reverse, burying the accelerator, plowing through an empty bus shelter and careening off a building’s façade, creating a chain reaction that caused…

  THE BILLBOARD

  …to come tumbling to earth over Tony’s head. Jesus is Coming. Are You Prepared? were words Tony would never forget.

  Buddy had materialized out on the street in time to witness it.

  “Get out!” the cabbie shouted, certain that Jon and Pumpkin Eater were to blame for his ruined evening. They exited quickly, joining Buddy and disappearing through a gathering crowd.

  Fusco’s car was parked in the shadows between two buildings, nicely camouflaged. In the vehicle, Fusco counted bundles of cash. Thousands of dollars. His share. He peeled off five one hundred dollar bills – Grace’s share – and pocketed the rest.

  “You must be after something pretty important this time.”

  Rogers didn’t respond, continuing to examine the jeweled cross that Grace happened to leave in Fusco’s car. Rogers tossed the cross onto Fusco’s lap as he pocketed his loupe.

  “Junk. Fifty quid. Retail.” Rogers said.

  “Quid?”

  “About seventy-five, eighty dollars.”

  “Yeah, I’ve got a cousin who’s a jeweler. That’s what he tells me.”

  “This is taking too long.”

  “Relax.”

  “How well do you know this woman?”

  “Boned her a couple of times.”

  “I mean can she be as trusted as you say?”

  A rear door swung open before Fusco managed a reply. Grace hopped in, startling them both.

  “Bout time. What happened to your face?” asked Fusco.

  “I’m not talking to you. Ever.” Grace replied as she locked eyes with Rogers. “Where’s the rest of my money?”

  “I don’t see the case.”

  “My money.”

  “Here, I’ve got it.” Fusco said as he handed it over.

  Grace snatched at it roughly and tucked it away before regarding Rogers again.

  “Now that we’ve gotten that taken care of, talk to me about the contents of that case.”

  Rogers regarded Fusco. “What is this?”

  Fusco seemed as surprised as Rogers.

  “What’s going on, Gracie?”

  Grace produced Foster’s gun and didn’t hesitate to squeeze off a shot that pierced the windshield.

  “Jesus Christ, what’re you doing?!” yelled Fusco, palming his right ear, wondering about what the medical prognosis might be for his eardrum. That was loud!

  “Shut the fuck up, Bill!”

  Grace pointed the gun squarely in Roger’s face this time as she said…

  “The contents of the case.”

  “Look, we made a deal.”

  “Bogus stock certificates, huh? I opened it. Explain to me why somebody would try to blow me in half to get at an old skeleton key.”

  “Somebody tried to kill you?” asked Fusco, alarmed.

  Fusco threw Rogers a scalding stare but Rogers wasn’t talking. Grace pressed the barrel of Foster’s gun up against the back of Rogers’ seat and squeezed off another shot,
sending seat stuffing flying in every direction.

  “What the fuck, Gracie! This is my car!” screamed Fusco, cupping both ears now.

  Rogers came up shaken, checking to see if he was hit. He wasn’t, but there was a gaping hole in an area of the seat just over his shoulder and just left of his neck. Grace thumbed back the hammer.

  “Okay, okay!” shouted Rogers, finally submitting. And, after he took a moment to compose himself…

  “Foster’s not Wall Street. He deals in antiquities, a kind of Indiana Jones. But with flexible morals.”

  “What?” asked Fusco, angry that he’d been lied to. Rogers continued…

  “Whomever you ran into tonight, they must’ve been his people.”

  “I doubt they were his people. They were there to kill him. And frame me while they were at it. Probably kill me as well after the fact.”

  Fusco threw Rogers another hard stare. Rogers found Grace.

  “Is he dead?”

  “Like disco. And like rap should be.”

  “Did you get the briefcase?”

  “You’re telling me that skeleton key is an artifact?”

  “Did you?”

  “Is it?”

  “It’s priceless. Hand crafted tens of millions of years ago.”

  Grace’s eyes went flat as she countered with… “You must think I’m really stupid.”

  “It’s true.” Rogers said, dead serious.

  “Humans didn’t exist tens of millions of years ago.”

  “Two of them did.”

  Grace just continued to look at him, unblinking, waiting for more. Rogers found a handkerchief and patted his forehead before elaborating.

  “A few months ago, a team of British archeologists stumbled on something that may very well prove to be the most important discovery in human history. The Garden of Eden itself.”

  Grace’s eyes grew even flatter. Rogers continued.

  “They found perfectly preserved skeletal remains of a male and a female homo sapien, the male missing one rib. Carbon dating analyses suggest they predate even the most prehistoric dinosaurs. They also found the petrified remains of an apple tree, variety unknown.”

  “Bullshit. The media would’ve been all over something like this. Why hasn’t it made the news?” Grace asked.

  “It’s been kept secret, the location even. The world doesn’t know.”

  “Oh yeah, how come you know?”

  “I’m a serious collector. I make it my business to know.”

  Rogers offered up the remainder of what he knew without any further prompting.

  “A box was uncovered at the site, old, as fragile as spun glass, yet virtually impenetrable. Several attempts were made to pry it open with no success. A few weeks later, they found a key, but by that time the box had disappeared – stolen – Foster’s work, I’m certain. Now, he’s stolen the key, selling it to whomever commissioned the box’s theft in the first place. I can’t allow that to happen, that box can never be opened.”

  “Why not?”

  “There are those who speculate it contains the original copy of the Old Testament. Others think it might house the plans for Creation itself, God’s blueprint, if you will. I believe it was constructed by Staan – a type of Pandora’s box, which, if opened, would unleash unspeakable evil capable of bringing the world to its knees.”

  Rap music would beat Staan to it, Grace thought as she continued to stare at Rogers, confident about her own sanity, wondering about his. Fusco unexpectedly punched Rogers in the face with a right cross.

  “You lying sack of shit. If anything happened to her, I would’ve killed you.”

  Rogers came up looking haunted, throwing Grace a sidelong glance.

  “Did you get the case or not?”

  “Four things. One, you need to up the dosage of your medication, like way the fuck up, and like right the fuck today. Two, your little artifact is safe, hidden in an alley, ten, twelve blocks west of here. Three, I’m starving but there’s a 24 hour gourmet burger joint on the way and Castle Boy, you’re buying.”

  Rogers cast Fusco an impatient glance which meant, start the car, let’s go. Fusco craned a look back at Grace.

  “What’s four?”

  “Once I’m done eating, we’re finding a 24 hour footwear emporium. Castle Boy owes me a new pair of shoes.”

  “Are you sure this is the right location?” Rogers asked Grace as he and Fusco combed the alley. Grace sat on the hood of Fusco’s car gorging on a burger and fries, examining her jeweled cross more closely this time, a little impressed by it now. She didn’t bother looking up, answering Rogers’ question by pointing out an area where she had spotted a spent shotgun shell.

  Fusco noticed Rocco’s former gun, now dead fish, and crouched for a better look because there was something strange about it. Why was there a silenced gun barrel sticking out of its mouth and why was there a trigger, complete with trigger guard protruding from its underbelly? Somebody’s odd idea of a joke, no doubt. Whoever did it also placed a spent .40 caliber casing nearby. Fusco dismissed all of it, coming up finding Rogers.

  “The sanitation people work nights in this area. Maybe they picked it up.” Fusco reasoned.

  Rogers slammed the dumpster with an open palm, frustrated, heaving a dispirited sigh. He approached Grace.

  “Those men that attacked you, would you recognize them if you saw them again?”

  “No.” Grace lied.

  Rogers didn’t believe her so he produced his business card.

  “In case your memory improves.”

  “Fuck you.”

  She took the card, crumpled it up and tossed it away. Rogers produced a fresh one and proceeded to wrap 5 one-hundred-dollar bills around it before offering it up again.

  “Four of these are for new shoes. I’ve included a fifth to help subsidize the cost of your phone call in case you see those men again.”

  She took the card, keeping it this time.

  Not every part of Los Angeles fits the stereotypical impression that some people who’ve never visited carry with them. Namely, that it’s a wild and crazy, anything goes place. Most areas are quite normal, in fact, filled with mundane everyday people doing mundane everyday things. This was one of those areas.

  Briefcase in hand, Jon stood outside a Christian novelty shop ogling the varied icons on display. Crucifixes, paintings, statues, every one of them depicting images of him. But there was absolutely no resemblance. He swiveled his neck, finding Pumpkin Eater who was also looking on, Buddy right beside him.

  “Why?” Jon asked.

  “Marketing.” Pumpkin Eater retorted, quite matter-of-factly.

  “Say again?”

  “After you departed, we took great care to construct your image on parchment and clay pottery and bronze statues. They were so lifelike, we found they aggravated most dogs and small children. Consequently, after painful deliberation, we decided it prudent to use my image instead. I, for one, think it flatters you.”

  Jon shook his head in disbelief, turning to leave, feeling eyes pressing on them from every angle. You can’t keep a low profile in some areas of Los Angeles when you’re wearing a toga.

  “We need to purchase some proper clothing.” Jon said.

  “Yeah, I could use some new threads.” responded Buddy, livening up at the thought, snapping off a photo of the icons on display before leaving.

  “Polaroid 680 SE Instamatic. Old technology, I know, but I found it in a bus shelter so I kept it. God helps those who help themselves, right?”

  “Must he be present?” Pumpkin Eater asked Jon while casting Buddy a contemptuous glare.

  “He knows where she lives, Peter. Show some tolerance.”

  Buddy’s eyes widened because he had just been freshly enlightened.

  “Hey, you’re St. Peter.”

  Pumpkin Eater flashed him a quick, insincere smile. It wasn’t long before Buddy frowned.

  “Wait a minute. If you’re here, who’s manning the gate rig
ht now?”

  Pumpkin Eater’s face turned to granite.

  The area, quite surprisingly, was completely deserted. Empty space had replaced the throngs of people who used to gather by the gate.

  In the distance, Moses squinted into the horizon, leading an endless flock of hopeful would-be entrants around in circles. He dug into his robes, surreptitiously producing a broken compass and giving the indicator hand a twirl. It came to rest pointing away from the gate.

  Cracking a confident smile, he waved for everyone to follow.

  “This way.”

  A dozen languages objected, bubbling in a rich broth, but only one person, an elderly woman pushing an issued walker, joints racked with arthritic pain, had the guts to confront him.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Moses. The gate is that way.”

  “How dare you question me, young lady?! I am a specialized veteran guide! Forty long years experience in the open desert! What are your qualifications?!”

  The woman cowered, swallowing hard. Truth was, she was terrified.

  “I thought so! Fall in with the others. We must journey!”

  The elderly woman labored to find her place in line as Moses led his flock astray.

  Everybody froze when Jon and his cohorts entered a high-end men’s clothing shop. Shoppers, sales reps, security personnel – everybody.

  Small children began to wail, a seeing eye dog growled. Surveillance cameras scanned after them, security personnel deploying.

  Jon slapped his credit card on the counter under the guarded eyes of an apprehensive sales representative. Member since day one. The sales rep flashed a wide smile, welcoming them graciously into the store.

  The next thing you know, the trio were being surrounded by a group of highly motivated salespeople, eager to fit them for attire.

  Sometimes it’s very difficult to understand how and why countless neighborhoods in just about every city in the wealthiest country on the planet can become so economically forgotten.

  A depressing mix of tenements, graffiti-burdened buildings and empty lots strewn with garbage welcomed our well-dressed trio as they arrived on the scene.