by Lee Goldberg
Jeffries took a leg from the bucket and nearly swallowed the whole thing, bone and all, in one eager bite. "As long as I can keep the old brain stoked, I'm happy."
"You don't care what the candidate stands for?" Shaw asked.
"So the candidate's a Democrat. Republican? A homosexual cat-hating, schmuck-baiting, leisure-suit-wearing Martian? It means nothing to me. Work with any of them if it's a challenge. Unless it's a small-time asshole like Lucas Breen."
"You sound happy," Macklin said.
"I am." Jeffries wiped his face with a yellow Chicken Shack napkin.
"Remember when we all worked on that cheerleader's campaign for student body president?" Shaw asked.
"We were all trying to sleep with her," Macklin added.
"I did," Jeffries said proudly, poking himself in the chest with his thumb.
"Bullshit." Macklin grinned at Shaw. Shaw looked away. Macklin self-consciously sustained the smile.
"Sure did," Jeffries said. "I was so happy about it I got drunk afterwards and tried to piss off the ninth-floor dormitory ledge."
"It's a good thing you were wearing that hooded sweatshirt," Macklin said.
"Yep, otherwise you would have grabbed a handful of air and I'd be part of the dormitory landscaping." Jeffries laughed. "Boy, I wish I was twenty again."
Macklin was distracted by the sound of tires skidding on the street. He saw a brown pickup truck, with three scruffy guys in the bed, make a screeching U-turn in front of the Chicken Shack and then bounce into the parking lot to Macklin's right at high speed.
"What the hell?" Shaw muttered, dropping his chicken and looking over his shoulder.
Macklin watched the truck smash through the row of motorcycles beside them and skid behind the Chicken Shack. The three passengers in the truck squealed with delight.
Macklin stood up just as the truck reappeared around the opposite end of the shack and saw one of the youths toss a flaming bottle towards them.
"Duck!" Macklin yelled, throwing himself down against the picnic table. He sensed the Molotov cocktail streak over his head and heard it shatter inside Shaw's car behind him.
Macklin turned and saw the flames licking the upholstery he had worked so carefully to restore. Jeffries bolted up from under the table and scrambled towards the Chicken Shack, running low past the wrecked motorcycles.
Macklin saw the truck whip around, screeching on a parallel path beside Jeffries. A youth raised another firebomb in his hand.
"Stop, Kirk!" Macklin yelled.
The firebomb landed among the motorcycles and exploded. He saw his friend hurled through the Chicken Shack window by the force of the blast.
Shaw, crouched beside the picnic table, sprang up, gun in hand, and fired at the truck, which skidded behind the building again.
Enough is fucking enough. Macklin's anger took control of him. Enraged, he pushed through the frenzied crowd and ran towards the other side of the Chicken Shack. The truck fishtailed around the edge of the building. Macklin took a running leap onto the hood of a parked car and then flung himself into the speeding truck. He slammed into a man poised to throw another lighted Molotov cocktail and knocked him over the side of the truck.
Macklin, lying stunned on his side, saw the burning man roll screaming in the truck's wake. One of the two remaining men jumped on Macklin, pinching Macklin's head between his hands. He slammed the back of Macklin's head against the floor of the truck, which sped into the street across the path of opposing traffic.
Macklin reached out for his assailant's neck, digging his thumbs into the soft flesh. The man's eyes bulged. He let go of Macklin's head and grabbed at Macklin's wrists, gurgling as he tried to loosen the choking grip.
Macklin felt himself thrown from side to side as the truck swerved sharply, weaving in and out of westbound traffic on Hollywood Boulevard.
Out of the corner of his eye, Macklin saw the other man swinging a bottle down towards his face and reacted instantly. Macklin jerked his choking assailant down on top of him. The bottle shattered against the assailant's head.
Macklin rolled out from under the unconscious man and fell against the tailgate, his back jammed into the right corner.
The remaining man, on his knees, looked from his bloodied friend to Macklin.
"You son of a bitch," the man shrieked, lunging at him.
Macklin yanked the tailgate handle with his left hand. The tailgate opened and Macklin fell back, desperately grabbing hold of the truck with his right hand. The man slid past Macklin and out of the truck headfirst, splattering like an insect against a motor home's shiny grillwork.
Macklin's body dangled over the passing road, his feet skipping on the asphalt. The racing truck snaked wildly around cars, whipping Macklin back and forth as he struggled to pull himself back in.
The car careened to the right and Macklin's body swung to the left, allowing him to lift his leg onto the tailgate and pull himself aboard.
Macklin, gasping for breath, crawled up the bed to the cab, braced himself against the side of the truck, and shoved his foot through the window behind the driver's head.
The driver yelped, twisting the wheel. The truck rammed against the side of a Hollywood Tour bus, jarring Macklin and flinging him to the opposite side of the bed.
"Look, it's the Fall Guy," a pregnant bus passenger from Wenatchee, Washington, squealed, excitedly snapping pictures of Macklin as he reached inside the cab and tried to take the wheel of the speeding truck.
The truck slammed against the bus again. The passenger rocked, watching Macklin push the driver's head away with one hand and grab the steering wheel with the other.
The bus driver braked and the truck careened sideways across the bus's path into oncoming traffic. A Datsun glanced off the passenger side of the truck and sent it spinning out of control through the front window of Frederick's of Hollywood in a storm of glass, plaster, and lingerie.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Time stopped on Hollywood Boulevard like a movie freeze-frame.
Then, out of the settling dirt and debris of Frederick's gaudy purple building, a figure emerged, staggered, and collapsed on the Walk of Fame.
Two police cars, sirens blaring, screeched to the curb. The car doors flew open and the officers burst out, guns drawn. Three ran into the crumbling storefront while the other went to Macklin, who lay twisted on Jack Palance's star, moving slightly and groaning as if shaking off the last remnants of a Sunday morning sleep-in. Macklin opened his eyes and saw a policeman leaning over him.
"Jesus," the officer said, holstering his gun. "Take it easy, an ambulance is on the way."
The officer scurried back to the squad car to call for backup and rescue units.
"Fuck the ambulance," Macklin mumbled, his face smeared with blood, plaster, and flecks of glass. He propped himself up on an elbow, fought back the dizziness, and then stood up shakily.
A large crowd had formed around the store and Macklin stumbled into it, the people moving out of his way as if he had a deadly infection.
"Hey, you, wait!" he heard the officer yell through the gathering crowd behind him.
Macklin turned to a taxi parked at the curb, glanced at the surprised, obese driver, yanked open the door, and ped in the backseat.
"Take me down to the Chicken Shack," Macklin coughed, lying down on the seat. The police officer, who had lost sight of Macklin in the crowd, ran past the taxi.
The driver glanced at Macklin in the rearview mirror, "After that, you wanna eat?"
"Are you gonna drive or do I walk?"
The driver stared at Macklin a moment longer, looked at the confusion of the street, and then sighed, turning the ignition and pumping the gas. "A fare's a fare," he mumbled.
Macklin closed his eyes as the car pulled away from the curb and pressed his face against the seat, hoping the worn cushion would deaden the throbbing pain in his head.
The accident had happened so fast. The truck had burst through the glass like a ro
cket, slamming into a gold-painted pillar and folding into it like an accordion, crushing the driver. Macklin remembered sailing through the windshield on impact, landing in a cluster of nightgown-clad mannequins.
"Hey, guy, you ain't puking on my seats, are you?" the driver barked.
"Please drive, okay?" Macklin sat up and looked out the rear window. The pandemonium on the street was now several blocks behind them.
"You look like hell, mister."
"It's okay," Macklin groaned. "I got another hour or so before my act at Chippendales."
"If it's like your last act, I hope the audience is armed," the driver said.
Macklin closed his eyes and leaned his head against the window. It felt like someone was pounding a stake through the middle of his head.
He thought about the days since his father's funeral. Tranquility given way to an endless succession of bloodshed. In his old world, his old life, people didn't throw Molotov cocktails at him while he ate dinner.
It didn't make sense.
Opening his eyes, he saw a long line of cars stopped in front of the taxi. Billows of smoke colored the sky brown about two blocks away.
The driver threw up his hands. "This is as far as you go. I can't get any closer."
"Okay." Macklin said, pushing open the door and stepping out onto the street. "What do I owe you?"
"Nothing. Just stop bleeding in my cab."
"Thanks." Macklin closed the door and walked down the street towards the smoke. Each step brought stabs of pain in his left side, his right knee, and his head.
As he neared the Chicken Shack he could see the parking lot was thick with smoke from the exploding motorcycles and the flames feeding off Shaw's Cadillac.
Two motorcycle cops growled into the parking lot, followed by a fire truck. Macklin, pushing through the crowd of onlookers, saw Shaw run from inside the Chicken Shack to meet the policemen. Raising his arm over his face to shield himself from the heat and smoke, Macklin dashed across the parking lot behind Shaw's back.
Squinting, Macklin made his way to the Chicken Shack hut. He stumbled through the doorway and saw Jeffries lying on a bed of shattered glass and fried chicken.
He leaned over his friend, scanning the rotund body for injuries. A mean gash cut across the right side of Jeffries face, from his forehead down to his chin. A jagged piece of bone, starkly white and speckled with blood, tore through the skin of his twisted right arm.
"I'm still alive, if that's what you're wondering," Jeffries whispered, his voice tinged with fear.
"Welcome to LA." Macklin picked shards of glass off Jeffries' face. "How do you feel?"
"Horrible. It hurts like hell. You wouldn't have some aspirin on you, would ya?"
"Nope."
"Ah, fuck it. I'll just suffer. I'll be a martyr, a war hero."
Macklin grinned with relief. Now he knew Jeffries was okay. "Don't you think you're going overboard? A war hero?"
"Hell no. Los Angeles is under siege. You can't eat in this town without risking your life. The last guy Wells brought in was gunned down at a Chinese restaurant, for Christ's sake."
Jeffries suddenly drew in his breath sharply, his eyes closed tightly. Macklin put his hand on Jeffries' shoulder as his friend untensed.
"Take it easy, Kirk. It's just pain."
Jeffries chuckled, the wave of pain appearing to ebb. "It's only pain. You're such an asshole, Brett."
"Kirk, did you tell anyone you were going to be here?" Macklin asked, not sure why.
"Nope. Just you."
Macklin felt an off, light-headed feeling, completely different from the dizziness he'd felt before. It dulled his pain and sent adrenaline surging through his veins. His heartbeat quickened.
"Are you sure?"
"Ya, I'm sure."
Macklin stood up slowly. The answers that had eluded him he sensed were within his reach now, swirling around his psyche, ready to come together into one truth.
He walked out the door into the smoke, feeling apart from the activity around him. Firefighters dragged hoses to the flames. A paramedic ambulance skidded to a stop at the curb.
Bits of dialogue crackled in his head.
. . . We'd hear all this talk but your father just couldn't track down anything . . .
Gangs are decimating each other over stuff that they hear happened but maybe didn't happen…Maybe you wanna take a swan pe off an overpass, motherfucker . . .
. . . The mayor told us to kill the cop . . .
Look, alls I know is that he was asking too many questions . . .
. . . Freeze, Macklin.
The gunman's face, the face behind the cracked windshield of the speeding sedan. It was coming into focus.
Freeze, Macklin.
Sliran. The gunman was Sliran!
Why would Sliran want Esteban or Macklin dead? How did Sliran fit into his father's murder? Or this attack?
Macklin looked back at the Chicken Shack, remembering Jeffries' words. I'm gonna help Elliot Wells clobber that son of a bitch Lucas Breen . . . What had happened to the last guy Elliot Wells had brought in to help him?
He was killed.
In a gang massacre.
The mayor told us to kill the cop. . .
Shaw was leading a team of paramedics to the Chicken Shack when he saw Macklin, trancelike, emerging from the smoke.
"Mack!" Shaw yelled, angry and surprised.
Macklin, apparently in a daze, ignored him and walked to a police motorcycle. Shaw broke away from the paramedics and ran toward Macklin, who straddled the cycle and kick-started it.
"Stop, Mack," Shaw yelled. "Stop!"
The cycle shot forward and Macklin roared past Shaw, veering away from the traffic-clogged street onto the sidewalk.
Shaw, flushed with anger, watched people leap out of Macklin's path as he raced down the sidewalk.
"That guy just took my cycle!" a voice screamed.
Shaw turned and saw an officer approaching behind him. "Put out an APB on Brett Macklin . . ."
The motorcycle purred to a stop on a side street across from the rear of the police station. Macklin, hidden in the shadows beside a brick building, looked at the police station as if it were Neal Sliran himself. He could feel the hate growing inside him and tightening his chest.
Macklin picked up the microphone.
"Dispatch, this is"—he made up a number—"Unit 232. Patch me in to Sergeant Sliran."
"Roger, 232, stand by," the woman's voice crackled over the speaker.
"Unit 232," a man's voice came over the speaker. "This is Sliran, go ahead."
Macklin brought the mike close to his mouth, a grim smile on his lips. "I'm still alive, Sliran, and I'm coming after you!"
"Who is this?" Sliran barked.
Macklin let him listen to static for a moment. Then he spoke slowly and carefully. "The Jury."
Macklin clicked off the radio and waited. Two minutes later he saw the back door of the station fly open and Sliran rush out, get into a Ford Galaxie, and screech out of the parking lot.
Macklin smiled, gliding smoothly into traffic a few cars behind Sliran.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The Elias Simon inner-city mission glowed in the dark. The building looked to Macklin as though it had been carved out of a block of marble, a one-story square monument to the power of religious television.
Macklin crouched behind the juniper bushes that lined the parking lot adjacent to the mission. He had been there for the last twenty minutes, watching Sliran smoking a cigarette in his car, parked directly across the street from the mission. Sliran tapped the dashboard nervously, casting glances over his shoulder every few seconds.
Macklin was impatient, too. His foot was falling asleep and his head still ached from the crash. And he wanted to go over and break the bastard's neck right now.
He was seriously considering just that when he saw Sliran look over his shoulder again and not turn back.
Peering over the top of the juniper hedg
e, Macklin saw the beam from a pair of headlights slice the darkness. A black Cadillac limo snaked around the corner towards the mission. Macklin ducked as the lights raked the top of the hedge and the car turned into the parking lot. Sliran, as if on cue, got out of his car, snubbed out his cigarette, and sprinted across the street.
Macklin raised his head again and saw the uniformed black chauffeur emerge. The chauffeur bent down to open the passenger door. Macklin saw the flash of blond hair, the blue suit, the slim, dancer's body. Sliran walked up and spoke to the man in animated gestures. The man turned to speak and Macklin saw his face. Elias Simon.
Macklin raised an eyebrow. So Simon is pulling the strings. How does he fit in?
The evangelist put his arm around Sliran's shoulder and led him into the mission. The chauffeur sat back down in the front seat of the limo.
The interior light was on. He could see the back of the chauffeur's head. The chauffer was reading a newspaper, spreading it out against the steering wheel. Bent low, Macklin dashed as lightly on his feet as he could to the limo.
He pressed himself close to the back right tire. Reaching into his pants pocket, Macklin pulled out his keys, careful not to jingle them. He picked out a long key and pressed the tip of it into the tire's pump nozzle, letting the air hiss out. Satisfied that the limo wouldn't leave for a while, Macklin dashed stealthily to the gleaming office building of Simon's mission.
Macklin found himself in one end of a portrait-lined hallway leading to a circular central reception area. The hallway smelled of freshly laid shag carpet. Macklin hugged the walls, passing portraits of Jesus Christ, Ronald Reagan, Oral Roberts, and Elias Simon as he quickly moved down the hallway. All the men were seen from the waist up against the same radiant sun. The oval-shaped reception area was lit by the bright moon shining through a rooftop skylight. There was a round desk in the center of the room near a wall-size portrait of Simon holding a Bible against his chest with both hands.
Two hallways branched off from the reception area. One was directly across from Macklin and led to a pair of arched, oak chapel doors with stained glass in the middle. One of the doors was ajar and Macklin could hear the muffled sound of voices from inside.
