Blackbird

by A. J. Gentile

  "So, you're a self-employed lawyer that doesn't own a proper suit and you ghosted your girlfriend. Are you trying to win millennial of the year?"

  "I'm what they call 'real boyfriend material.'"

  The waitress brought their sushi, and the pair started eating. "Will there be anything else, Mr. Blackbird?" she asked.

  "That'll be all, thanks."

  "Jeez, you must be a regular."

  "Huh, not really. Maybe she got it from the credit card."

  "Anyways," Lexi said, "I get it. Dating for our generation is every shade of crazy. I've tried all of the dating websites and apps. When I finally stumble on a half-decent guy that doesn't proposition me for nude photos, I end up cancelling on him because of work. Even worse, sometimes I think my boss is keeping me late because he's creeping on me."

  "That seems to be an epidemic around town."

  "What would you know about?"

  "I just mean," Zeke replies, thinking about Mikulski preying on Cahill, "I've just heard it's more of a problem than people think."

  "Yeah. Corporate law is really bad, too. For starters, there are almost always more men than women at the top. Managing partners have the final say on your yearly review and bonuses, too. Add in that you're all stuck in the office for 10 or 11 hour days. It's a recipe for disaster."

  "Well, maybe you should hang out your own shingle?"

  Lexi laughed. "Heck no," she said, "Right now I have zero discernible skills. At this point I just propound discovery and do case research. Maybe in a few years. Honestly, what you're trying to do with your own practice is inspiring. I really hope it works out."

  Zeke smiled. "Me too—"

  "Excuse me," a man said, approaching their booth. He was wearing a white tank top and black leather jacket. "Are you Ezekiel Blackbird?"

  "Who's asking?" Zeke replied.

  The man unzipped his jacket and brandished a handgun. "Someone that would really like to meet you."

  Zeke could almost feel his heart skip a beat. He glanced at Lexi, who had been chewing on a crispy shrimp roll, and she looked like a deer in headlights. He looked around the restaurant, hoping someone else was seeing this, but it was empty.

  "Ok," Zeke thought about his words carefully. "Let me just give you my card. If you call my number, my answering service can schedule a consultation for this week—"

  "Look, kid. You're coming with me. He wants to meet now."

  "Well," Zeke said, "I'm sorry, but I can't right now. I drove both of us here."

  The man snickered. "Heard of Uber? She'll be fine. That is, unless you want to do this the hard way."

  Lexi slowly reached for the cell phone in her purse.

  "Not quite yet, Ma'am. I'll need you to wait a few minutes after we leave. I know the service staff here, too. They'll make sure you don't call the cops until we're well away."

  Lexi was silent. She looked at Zeke, who could tell she was praying that he wouldn't go with him.

  "So, what do you say, Zeke?"

  "Mr. Blackbird is fine, thank you. And I'll come willingly." Zeke got up from the table and tightened his tie.

  "Zeke," Lexi whispered, "this is a bad idea. Don't go."

  "I'll be fine," he lied, " And hey, aren't you glad I already paid?"

  "But—“

  "I'll call you when I get home." Zeke turned to his anonymous kidnapper, "Alright, let's go."

  Zeke and the man walked through the empty restaurant and towards the front entrance. Zeke glances at the hostess and waitstaff, who appeared to be avoiding eye contact with him.

  Is this Mikulski's doing?, Zeke thought to himself. Maybe word got around set that I had been asking about his relationship with Cahill. Wainwright seemed pretty sharp, so Zeke figured it wouldn't be long until VMK was on his tail.

  Zeke and the man walked through the Plaza toward a parking garage across the street. They passed by the Federal Defender's office, and Zeke was reminded why he didn't want to be in this business in the first place. They crossed the street and got into a beat-up car in a dark parking garage, and the man handed Zeke a black, canvas bag.

  "Lay down in the back seat and put this bag over your head."

  "You can't be serious."

  The man sat silently with the bag in his outstretched hand.

  "Fine, whatever you say," Zeke relented.

  Zeke got in the car and put the bag on his head. He felt the car start and pull out of the garage, getting lost in the city.

  Chapter 7

  February 26th, 12pm

  "How's it going, Tiger?" Rodrigo asked. Alex wheeled his mop bucket, filled with the day’s deliveries, into Rodrigo's cell.

  "Great. Never better," Alex said, "What are we doing today?"

  "You've had a long three weeks, Alex. Maybe we should take a day off."

  "Screw that. I'm on a mission, Rodrigo. I need to know everything there is to know about fighting."

  "You've been training hard, my friend. And I think you've even put on some muscle. But you're not ready to take him on. It'd be suicide."

  Alex grunted as he started doing pull-ups from the top bunk. Ever since Zeke said that he needed time to investigate the case, Alex had decided that he would confront Jimmer. Alex's dad, Javier, was a groundskeeper at a high school in the San Fernando Valley. He was also a gifted storyteller. At family gatherings and house parties with friends, you could always find him at the center of the party, spinning one of his time-tested yarns. He ended every story with a lesson: about life, human behavior, and values. When he was a child, Zeke overheard a story that stuck with him.

  As Javier told it, when he was a teenager he took a part-time job as a grave digger to support his family. The first few weeks had been normal, mostly training on the grave digging and burial equipment. But after some time, the cemetery owner called him into the office. The owner told Javier that he had been digging the graves too wide.

  Javier protested, saying the cemetery advertised and promised customers burial plots at least eight feet long and two and half feet wide. Javier dug them to those specifications. The owner grinned, saying that the cemetery hadn't dug its plots to code for some time. He bragged that it had fleeced so many unwitting customers of their money, figuring that it was a victimless crime. When Javier threatened to report him to the city police, the owner laughed. Javier wouldn't dare do such a thing, he said. The owner knew Javier’s family relied on his extra income.

  Upset, Javier took his case to the other grave diggers. They laughed in his face too, though. They had been complicit in the owner's scheme, happy to comply as long as the owner cut them in on the con job.

  At this point in the story, Javier's voice would get quiet. His listeners would lean forward, hoping to absorb another one of his lessons.

  "Never let people push you around," Javier said, "especially crooks. You are all you have in this life. If you don't stand up for yourself and what is right, then no one else will. Behind thieves' false bravado and deceit is a scared soul. One person with integrity and a backbone can bring down the whole charade."

  The following day, Javier wrote letters to every major newspaper in southern California. He detailed the cemetery owner's scheme and included the names of every complicit grave digger. The story spread like wildfire. Javier was fired in short order, but after the LAPD received a warrant to exhume some of the graves, the owner was arrested and jailed for fraud.

  Money was tight for a while, but Javier eventually found another job. When employers asked him what his greatest strength was, he always said, "My word is my bond and I never back down from bullies."

  Jimmer is a bully, it's as simple as that, Alex thought to himself. He was just a low-level drug mule now, but Alex figured that Jimmer would keep asking for more favors. If he was going to be stuck in here for the duration, he needed to bring Jimmer down. And since Jimmer had nearly everyone else bought off, it was up to Alex to stop him.

  Alex finished his set and dropped down from the top bunk. "When do you thi
nk would be the best time to do it?"

  "Ideally? A few months from now. Build up your strength. Maybe make a few more friends in here that can back you up."

  "I don't have that kind of time," Alex replied, "this ends today."

  "Evening chow, then, I figure. If you're gonna do it, you may as well make sure everyone sees. It would be a miracle if you could take him down, but he won't kill you if he knows that every inmate and guard is watching."

  "Evening chow it is.

  "This'll probably be the last time I see you then."

  "How do you figure?"

  "Well, if Jimmer kicks the crud out of you, like I expect he will, he'll never let you near that mop bucket again. If you manage to bring him to his knees, the guards will have to intervene. They'll make sure you’re not a trustee after that. Either way, you'll have no reason to be walking freely between the pods."

  "It's been real Rodrigo. I hope you get out of here soon."

  "Me too, Tiger."

  Alex spend the rest of the afternoon outlining his plan from his cell room.

  "What are you doing up there?" Alonzo asked from the bottom bunk.

  "Nothing. Just thinking," Alex replied.

  "Yeah, right. Nothin' good ever came from 'just thinking' in jail. You need to keep your hands busy. Idle hands are the devil's workshop."

  "I've already mopped the entire floor, all five pods. Finished deliveries."

  "I can't help but notice you haven't been in the right state of mind the past few days. I'm worried about you."

  "You didn't seem too worried when Jimmer was punching in my skull a few weeks ago. No one did."

  "You see. This is what I was saying about keeping your head down, Alex. It doesn't do no one any good for you to be asking questions and back talking the people that run things. In every society there are the rule makers and the rule-followers. Around this place, Jimmer and the guards are the rule makers. When Jimmer leaves, most likely in a body bag, another type-A criminal gang drug lord type will be there to replace him. The best the rest of us can do is manage our expectations."

  "Sounds like a terrible way to live."

  "If you wanted to live then you shouldn't have killed that girl."

  "I'm in here for burglary, remember?"

  Alonzo laughed, "yeah, right."

  "So what's your plan, Alonzo?" Alex asked.

  "How do you mean?"

  "I don't mean to offend you or anything, but you're older than dirt. Aren't you afraid that this is it?"

  "Alex, I came to terms a long time ago with what my life was going to look like. I've been in and out of prison since I was old enough to vote."

  "That's not what I mean. You're a long-timer. People in here like you, they look up to you. You know the ins and outs of how this place works. If you wanted to take Jimmer on, you could. What the hell is stopping you?"

  Alonzo sighed. "Kid. I'm old. I'm tired. I gave up a long time ago. I just want to live out the end of my life in peace with three square a day and a place to sleep at night. If that means I have to do Jimmer's bidding from time to time, then so be it."

  "You're broken, then."

  "Maybe. If you can find another way, then more power to you. But I promise that path is paved with misery."

  Alex grunted. He would be on his own against Jimmer today.

  Outside, a guard rapped his nightstick on the door to their pod. "Dinner for the island of broken toys!" he said, laughing. The PA system inside their pod rang out, signaling it was time to line up for evening meals. At Twin Towers Correctional Facility, trustees would bring prepared meals into the pods—flanked by correctional officers—on wheeled carts with paper plates and plastic spoons.

  Alex and Alonzo walked out of their cell and down the stairs into Pod 141-B's common area. Inmates were lined up to the side of the meal cart, waiting for Jimmer to come out of his cell and get his meal. Jimmer had made it well know that he got his food first and sat down first. No one was allowed to get up until Jimmer had finished his food.

  "Hey Bobby," Jimmer said, walking out of his cell towards the meal cart. "What do we got today?" he said to one of the guards.

  "Not sure, Jimmer. Mystery meat, I guess. Smells like dog shit, whatever it is."

  "I don't care about what they're eating, Bobby. What do you got for me today?"

  Jimmer shook the guard's hand, discreetly passing him a wad of cash.

  "Dinner for breakfast! Steak and eggs."

  "That's my boy," Jimmer replied, taking his special tray and sitting down at a table in the middle of the common area.

  Alex fell into line behind Alonzo, towards the end. Ever since Jimmer had subdued Alex with a mop, he had become a no-go zone for the rest of the inmates. Everyone found seats at the common area tables or on the stairs and started eating.

  Alex grabbed his tray and sat down on the ground underneath the stairs. His heart had started racing the minute that time was called for dinner. He had just barely gotten control of his breath when he opened the lid on his tray to the putrid smell of old meat.

  He felt a hunger pang in his stomach but couldn't bring himself to even eat a spoonful of whatever slop the prison was trying to get rid of today. He thought about what his family was eating tonight. Arroz con pollo maybe, served with the fresh tortillas his mother made every Sunday night.

  Alex dropped his tray on the ground, spilling it contents and making a loud sound that echoed throughout the pod. A few inmates looked up as he stood and walked towards Jimmer's table.

  He had nearly made it to Jimmer's seat when someone else at the table said, "Hey Jimmer, looks like you've got company."

  Jimmer started to turn around. "Now who the hell," He paused, recognizing Alex. "Oh, kid, you just don't know when to quit, do you."

  Alex stepped forward, grabbed a fistful of Jimmer's scrambled eggs and put them in his mouth. He started straight at Jimmer as he chewed and swallowed.

  "You little shit. I made a promise to you and everyone else here that I would end you the next time you got in my way. I can't very well break my word, now can I. So, I guess we're—"

  Before Jimmer could finish his sentence Alex threw a left hook, catching the right side of Jimmer's nose. As Alex made contact, everyone at the table could hear the distinct sound of a bones crunching.

  Holy shit, Alex thought. His hand was on fire. He was sure that he’d broken his hand until he saw Jimmer writhing on the floor, blood pouring from his face.

  Seize the offensive space, Alex remembered Rodrigo telling him. Without even thinking about it, Alex had pinned Jimmer's arms down with his legs and had started going to town on his face. Alex could smell the iron in Jimmer's blood. All around him the inmates were roaring, equal parts excited and frightened at the David and Goliath spectacle on the floor.

  Alex wasn't quite sure how much time went by before guards pulled him off Jimmer, but the damage was done. Jimmer was unconscious and his face beaten to a fresh pulp, unrecognizable to anyone that knew him.

  The guards sat Alex down next to the table. An alarm rang out over the PA system, ordering inmates to get on the ground and place their hands behind their heads. Most of the inmates complied, but a few had been shaken into a frenzy and started throwing punches at the guards.

  When all the inmates had been detained on the ground, the guards brought in an emergency medical team to attend to Jimmer. "Damn," one of the EMT's said, "what the hell happened to this one?"

  "Took one on the nose from ‘the Karate Kid’ over here," pointing to Alex. "He never even got a punch off."

  But Alex could barely register what they were saying. He was staring at Jimmer's unfinished steak, which was sitting on a plate, inches away from his face. He reached out a hand, grabbed the steak, and tore off a big chunk in his mouth. It was the best food he had ever eaten.

  February 26th, 11:30pm

  "I'm outside Dirty Laundry," Matty texted Zeke. It was getting late and Matty hadn't heard from him all day. That was odd, Matty though
t, since Zeke was usually sending him updates about Alex's case. Zeke was already 30 minutes late.

  Lawyers, he thought. The only person's time they care about is their own. Matty figured Zeke would appreciate it if he got an early start on canvassing potential witnesses at the bar. And besides, Matty thought, he heard that Dirty Laundry would give you a free shot of Johnny Walker's "The John Walker" whisky—which retailed for about $4500 a bottle—if you said the magic phrase they posted to their Twitter every couple of weeks.

  And Matty had done his research. Dirty Laundry occupied the basement of an old apartment building and was formerly Rudolph Valentino's personal speakeasy. Valentino was a 1920's silent film actor and sex symbol, known as the "Latin Lover" in Hollywood. The bar's current owners have doubled down on the connection, Matty observed, as he walked down a subdued side stairwell and past a giant sign reading 'Sex'.

  A guy checking ideas near the front gave Matty a concerned look.

  "Excuse me, sir, can I help you?"

  "Yes, just looking for some drinks," he replied, brushing some nonexistent dirt off of his Members Only jacket. He had thrifted it from a second-hand store in Silverlake.

  "I'm sorry, sir, but the bar has been reserved for a private party tonight."

  "I see, but surely you can make an exception for a social media influencer?"

  "I'm sorry sir. It's policy."

  Matty got out his phone and opened Instagram. He swiped to a profile—LA Mixology Addict—and showed it to the receptionist.

  "You see, sir, I have almost 150,000 followers. Most of them live outside of Los Angeles, and travel here for business and pleasure. I curate a special selection of the finest drinks in Los Angeles for my followers. It would be a shame if I had to tell them that Dirty Laundry refuses paying guests at the door."

  Stumped, the bouncer relented. "Fine," he grunted, "just sit at the bar."

  "Thanks" Matty said. He wasn't quite sure who LA Mixology Addict actually was, but Matty liked drinks and loved Los Angeles so decided it was truth-adjacent.