by Jeff Klima
It will be over quick, I tell myself. In less than three seconds and you won’t even feel the pain. Your neck will shatter before your brain can process a sensation. From this position, I will keep my head level to hit the parietal lobe first, instantly crushing my somatosensory cortex while compacting my spine—there won’t be enough time to feel anything before I black out. Just tell him to drop you. Do it. Don’t let him win.
But then I think of Ivy. She’d never let this go, no matter what anyone told her. She’d try to avenge me and wind up dead in the process. That is, if Mikey doesn’t go after her first. That’s the reality in all this—I can’t go out this way without pulling her down too. If I die here, she’ll be dead not long after, baby or not. At once, I feel something powerful for her . . . beyond a gratitude. I know I would avenge her death just as savagely. I couldn’t live with myself and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that she couldn’t either. That’s the thing about all this: not only would I die for her, but I have to live for her too.
“My grip is slipping,” Crozier interrupts my Zen focus.
“How am I supposed to get to your dad?” I ask, resigned to living. The strong man’s other hand clamps back on my leg and hauls me in, bouncing my head and torso off the unfinished concrete ledge. As soon as I am back on the ledge, he releases me to grasp at his hands, rubbing them. I flop to the floor of the garage, steadying myself against a hearse and look up at Mikey, expectant.
“Good, now we’re getting somewhere,” he says. I notice that his Ramen persona is the same as his Mikey. Emotionally and tonally he is the same, which is a plus because I am adept at reading him already, there isn’t much of anything new to discover . . . more confidence, maybe. “It was frustrating spinning our wheels on this,” he continues. “Having to revisit the same talking point: I have you under my thumb. Now I hope we’re on the same page?”
“I’ll behave,” I promise and use the wall to help me stand, still uneasy about my near dance with gravity.
“Here’s what happens. Us Hollywood folk love awards. My dad especially. And so he will make a rare public appearance this Wednesday to collect a philanthropy award at the Millennium Biltmore Hotel. Crystal Ballroom. They filmed Ghostbusters there. Considering what a hermit crab he is, I’m surprised he’s showing up. It’s our best chance for you to do it—otherwise he only moves between his house in the hills and his country club—and he always has his ex-commandos with him.
“Yeah, but how do you think I can pull this off?”
Mikey pulls a small vial of clear liquid from his pocket. “With this. Aconite. Virtually untraceable. He’ll look like he died of a heart attack. But even if it is detected, it won’t be until the autopsy and poisoning is so en vogue with the ruling class. Some of history’s greatest leaders have been poisoned. He drinks a single glass of Macallan Scotch a night. That’s where we hit him.” Mikey returns the vial to his pocket.
“Why don’t you just sub out the bottle of Macallan at the hotel with a poisoned one before the party even happens, then? You don’t need me for that.”
“If only it were that easy, Tom. See, George purchased several cases of Macallan 64 in Lalique Cire Perdue—a single bottle of the stuff sold for $464,000 at auction because they claimed it was the only one. He brings a bottle with him when he goes out and it is guarded at all times by one of his security detail. See what I mean about a finesse operation? I need your brains to get it into that glass. It’s poetically important to me that he be killed by the only thing he ever really loved.”
“So that’s it, then?” I say, shaking my head. “This isn’t about power, it’s about punishing your dad. I don’t think I can get it into his glass if he’s got these commandos guarding him.”
“That’s George’s secret though,” Mikey emphasizes. “He’s terrified of being murdered, but he’s also arrogant. In public, he won’t want his guards close because he’ll look like he’s afraid. They’ll be there alright, but he’ll keep them at a distance.”
“I still don’t know how I can get it into his glass. Or this event. Won’t it be by invite only?”
“See, they invited me because they don’t know there is a complex history, and they think I’d want to be there to watch my father win an award. The ticket even has a plus one, so you’ll be bringing Crozier to make sure there’s no funny business.”
“No homo,” Crozier pipes up suddenly.
“He’ll also be taking your invitation back once you’re inside, to ensure there are no links to me if anything goes wrong. As for the how, we’ve rented you a tuxedo matching the ones worn by the waiters. Pretend to clear a plate or two and then pour a little in his glass when no one is looking. After that feel free to stay and watch the awards if you want. Or you can leave. Whether you ever hear from me again is contingent upon how successful you are.”
“I don’t like it.”
“It’s not for you to like or dislike.” Mikey shrugs. “It’s for you to do. You see why I needed to put you in the position you’re in? Sure, there’s a risk of failure. But I feel you can handle an attempted murder charge a lot better than you can handle a murder charge. Unless the security guys get to you first.”
“Give me the poison,” I say, extending my hand.
“Hahaha, no, not yet,” Mikey laughs. “I need your smarts but I also fear them. I think you’d love to find a way to use it on me. You would, wouldn’t you?”
“In a heartbeat,” I agree.
“See?” Mikey nods. “You’re even making puns. You’re so quick, Tom. That’s why I believe in your ability to pull this off. I’ve chosen you to kill the one person I want dead in this world more than anything. In a way, you should consider this all a compliment.”
“So when do I get it, then?”
“Come by my house on Tuesday at seven. I’ll give you the vial and your tux along with the invitation. I trust that you will still be smart enough by then to not do anything stupid.”
Chapter 23
“Are you taking me to pick up my work truck?” I ask Crozier as we leave the garage and turn out onto Angeleno Avenue.
“What the fuck do I look like? A taxi? You’re lucky I’m heading in the direction of your shitty little apartment.”
“So you’ve been inside, huh?”
“Stole a pair of your girl’s panties too.” Crozier mimics smelling them.
“I’m glad you told me,” I say. “I was worried I was starting to like you.”
“Oh, I’ll always have a place in your heart.” He grins that toothy grin of his.
“Near my heart,” I remind him.
“I’m gonna feed that heart to my dogs when we’re done with it. It’ll be like a dessert, but I like to spoil ’em every now and again.”
“Aww, if you want to spoil them, maybe don’t pit them against each other,” I point out.
“You want to find out who really appreciates life, you gotta test them with death sometimes.” Crozier shrugs. “You just learned that lesson.”
“These Bentleys, they’re pretty expensive, huh?” I say, switching modes.
“Fuck yeah, they is,” Crozier agrees. “They come loaded with shit, shit I don’t even need. I don’t know what half these switches do.”
“It’s pretty sturdy too, right?”
“Bitch could stop a tank,” he says and pats the steering wheel appreciatively.
“It’s a nice day, yeah? Can we do windows over the AC?”
“Hah, you want that fresh air, huh? Alright, my man, I’m game.” Crozier hits the air-conditioner button, killing the breeze. I roll my window down, pushing it all the way into the door. Crozier does likewise, but stops his window halfway. Like a perfect guillotine.
As we pull up toward the red light at North Hollywood Way, nobody is in front of us and I scan the intersection quickly, looking at the cars moving west. My heart is racing, searching out something solid. Crozier’s foot is still on the accelerator, but he’s easing it off, about to hit the brakes. I need his fo
ot to stay on the accelerator pedal for this to work. A semi, big and loaded down with a trailer is racing to beat the yellow light, heading straight for the intersection. I touch the top of my safety buckle, making sure I’m belted in. Crozier, sensing that if he times it correctly he can roll through on the fresh green without having to completely stop, shifts his foot to the brakes, taps them, once, twice and then moves back to the accelerator, anticipating. It’s the move I need. Mashing both my hands down on his knee, I catch the big black man by surprise with the move and the car leaps forward, obeying.
“Motherfucker!” he snarls, screaming it, not sure if to push me back, reach for his gun, or yank the wheel. The uncertainty costs him, not that he could have reacted fast enough anyhow as the powder-blue luxury whip-speeds out into the intersection. The semi driver, corralled in the second lane, can only yank his air horn in anticipation of the crash. With less than a second to impact, I release Crozier’s leg, against the deafening warning blast from the driver of the big truck. “Mother—” is all Crozier can say as the Bentley’s frame explodes around us, decimating the left side of the car at the driver’s seat. The air bags go off around us, insulating our side impact, but the physics hold and both our bodies are jerked violently toward the impact. I don’t have time to look, as my body is rag-dolled by the hit, but there is a brilliant burst of thick red pulp that splatters me and the innards of the car as a liberal portion of the side of Crozier’s face is dissected violently by his window. Brain matter, fragmented into a spongy wet blast, tumbles down as I am banged back and forth against my air bags, having no choice but to receive the red stew against me, bathing me in the man’s life fluids. What’s left of the now-bisected portion of his face, basically part of his nose and his lips, spews a mess of spinal juice and blood forward, remaking the air bags on his side into a mangled, carmine horror show. I gasp for oxygen, the air bags having forced the wind from me, and bounce back into alertness.
Though I heard nothing in the moments immediately following the collision, sound emerges through the silence—horns, screaming people, and cars squealing to a hard stop. I don’t have time to wallow in my own shock though, I have to get out of the car. The frame is bent, but my door still functionally tumbles open, as I release my seat belt and spill out, unsteadily, from the wreckage. People are just now getting to us, several of them with cellphones that they are quickly converting to video mode. I keep my head down, moving through the attempted embraces of my would-be heroes. “Check the truck driver,” I yell, but the man, a wide-eyed Latino, is already climbing out of his truck, unassisted. “What happened?” he yells to everyone approaching, as a crowd begins to form around the scene, eager to offer their expert opinion or try to save Crozier’s life. “Not my fault,” the driver follows up with quickly. As they reach the ruined Bentley behind me, I hear one man retch and then another, as they glimpse the horror I just endured. I do not look back, but beg the people who are moving toward me to “Save my friend, please!” They move on, now focused on what they can do to help the situation and I am forgotten.
“You need help,” a woman screams at me, but I do not feel injured by the crash, only discombobulated, possibly a minor concussion.
“Not my blood,” I reassure her. “I need to sit.” Fortunately, the early camera crowd, eager to be the first to either sell their gruesome footage or post it to the Internet, have their cameras trained fully on the wreck. I wipe what blood I can as I go, but my white polo is stained across the left side, its shoulder fabric absorbed with bits of Crozier’s ruptured skull. That won’t be going on Mikey’s shelf, I think wryly, and the morbid humor is a good indication that I am not concussed. People keep arriving at the scene, running out of their shops, abandoning their cars in the road to bear witness to the most exciting part of their afternoon.
“Where you going, buddy?” a man yells after me, but I wave limply to acknowledge him and in deciding between me and checking out the crash, he chooses the crash, moving toward it instead, as if worried he will lose out on his chance to be a hero . . . or possibly to capture some footage on his smartphone.
I clear the ring of first responders and move on to make my way past the meekly curious.
“What happened?” a frail woman with a bag from a bakery asks, looking at the crash and not me.
“No clue,” I deadpan, despite being covered in blood. My goal is to be long gone before the cops arrive to make their own speculations on the incident. I cut through a gas station and two more parking lots, weaving, moving quicker now, more steady on my own feet. As I go, I take off my shirt, flipping it inside out to hide the blood as much as possible, while mopping at my face. Even though the fabric’s a collected mess of skin, bone flecks, blood, and soupy discharge, I don’t dare toss it away. Though several people saw my blood-painted features as I limped past them, it is hopefully what was left of Crozier that sticks with them when they offer their accounts of the drama to the police. I will ideally be a sketched-up composite of several different opinions when they show my likeness on the evening news, a poor rendering of my actual appearance, speculated upon and then all too quickly forgotten. It’s all too easy to get swept into the vast, never-ending cycle of Los Angeles’s miseries and effectively disappear.
I move to side streets, making my way across the increasingly familiar suburbs of Burbank. Here they have not heard the crash, have not yet heard sirens, and will have little cause to pay attention to the gaunt shirtless man carrying a bunched-up red flag of some sort. And even if they do notice me, gathering a protracted view, no police will likely ask them. My street on into my apartment complex is quiet. All the wannabe actors we play neighbor to are apparently busing tables or sleeping off the effects of a pot brownie.
I make my way into the common area, around the pool and then to my apartment where the door is mercifully unlocked.
“Have you seen my red thong?” Ivy yells from the bedroom, hearing me walk in the door. “I can’t find it anywhere. I swear, once I have this baby, all the rest of my thongs are going away too. Granny panties, sweatpants, and ice-cream sandwiches for this mom.”
“We gotta talk,” I say, intense from the living room.
“I was just kidding,” she volunteers quickly. “I’ll be a sexy mom, a MILF, I promise.” She stops short when she sees me. “Fuuuuudge, what happened to your shirt?”
“Long day,” I mutter and move into the kitchen where I drop the ruined shirt into the sink with a splat.
“Is that blood on you?” she asks, authentically worried.
“Not mine,” I promise.
“From a crime scene?” She wrinkles her nose in disgust, as if maybe I’d had a roll in the blood on a lark.
“It’s Crozier’s blood. I just killed Crozier.”
“What? Tom! You can’t go around killing people to solve your problems, no matter what they are! That just makes for a worse problem. And now you’ve told me, which makes me an accomplice! I can’t be one of those women who has a baby in jail!”
“You won’t be.” I make a move to comfort her, but she backs away. I want to believe it’s because of the blood. “And I had no choice this time. These people—Detective Chong was right—there’s only one way you can deal with them.”
“What about Ramen? I thought he was going to help you take down Mikey Echo without anyone dying?”
“There is no Ramen—Ramen is Mikey Echo,” I persist, feeling myself needing to get her back on board with me.
“What does that even mean?” she asks, beginning to form frustrated tears in the corners of her eyes.
“I found out last night. This has all been a giant con, a giant mind-fuck. I was going to tell you, but Ramen—Mikey—found out and now he wants me to kill his dad.”
“I tried to tell you! I knew there was something bigger!”
“I know. I should have listened. I will listen to you more going forward. If I survive all this.”
“Survive all what? You’re not going to do it, are you?”
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“Mikey put me in a situation. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“You can warn George Echo for one!”
“There’s more though.”
“I don’t know if I can handle more,” Ivy says, her mascara mixing with the moisture to create black tears running down her face.
“You shouldn’t have to, I know. This is all my fault. I created this mess.” I go to wipe some sweat from my brow, but find it is blood. “I put my new office squarely on the Sureño Lowriders turf. I did it because I wanted to find them, to kill them.
“Tom, do you realize what you’re telling me?”
“I know! I know how it sounds. It’s bad. And I should have told you sooner, but . . . something inside me . . . I wanted to make them pay for what they did to my boss.”
“Have you . . . hurt anyone else?” she asks.
“No.” I shake my head, vigorous. “I promise. And I only hurt—killed Crozier because he was going to kill me. But now the Sureños are on to me too. And I want it all over with. But I don’t know how I can just walk away.”
“You realize this isn’t just you you’re doing this to . . . you’re doing it to us.”
“I’m not great at being in a relationship,” I falter.
“No fucking shit!” Ivy yells. “No fucking shit.”
“I need help,” I say, taking a step toward her. For her part, she does not back away this time. “I need you to help me get through this.”
“Can we go to the police? Please?” she begs.
“Not this time. They’re powerless against Mikey. And they won’t be able to do anything except put a restraining order on the Sureños . . . that won’t do anything.”
“So what’s left? What are our options?”
“Right now, I need you to trust me,” I say, deciding. “I’ve got to get us out of this mess. You and me. And this little thing here,” I add, putting my hand on her stomach, leaving a slight red outline there.
“You know I do trust you, Tom,” Ivy says, “but I’m worried about what this all means.”
