“What the hell am I doing?” I said, putting my gun in the glove compartment.
Not an hour ago I had killed two security guards and pistol-whipped a woman. Now I was picking out prom dresses. Seriously, what the hell? I reminded myself why I’d come to LA in the first place and what I needed to do. But things had changed. The cutters were loose and they were killing people. And this girl—whoever she was—was part of it. I needed the angel to give me some answers. I remembered a prayer my mother had taught me when I was little. She used to say it with me every night before I went to sleep.
Angel of God, my guardian dear,
to whom God’s love commits me here,
ever this day be at my side
to light, to guard, to rule, and guide.
Amen.
The angel didn’t show. After a few minutes the Russian girl came out of the restroom fully dressed. I almost didn’t recognize her. She was really damn cute in her pink sweater, grey jeans and fuzzy hat. A chic waif fresh out of a Russian winter. Smiling shyly she climbed into the truck with the bags and waited for me to return the restroom key. Then we were off.
“Thank you for remembering panties,” she said.
“No problem. Sorry, getting into the bra thing was too much for me.”
“Are you going to have sex with me now?”
I almost hit the brakes. My face burning I turned to her and saw that she was serious. “Wasn’t planning on it.”
“Oh. Are you . . .”
“No!”
Though I was angry, I reminded myself that this girl didn’t know me from Ted Bundy. I was sure most men would have taken advantage of the situation and demanded a violent quickie under the freeway overpass. All I wanted was to safely deposit her with her family and get the hell out.
As we drove I gazed around me, noticing the businesses located there, the passing cars and the pedestrians. Far off, an Asian man in a cheap green suit and carrying a bright yellow umbrella was hurrying to catch a bus. A small mongrel dog behind a chain-link fence yapped at him viciously as he passed. Someone in the house cursed in Spanish and threw a shoe at the dog. Whimpering it trotted back towards the porch. This was the way it was supposed to be. Normal people doing normal things. No grey-suits, no cutters. Just people.
“You look like you could use a meal,” I said. “I’ll find us a taco truck. No surveillance cameras that way.”
“You avoid the cameras?”
“Always.”
“Are you . . .”
“Look, I’m not a bad person, if that’s what you’re thinking. You?”
“No. I’m not a bad person. They—”
She made herself small against the seat. We rode the rest of the way in silence.
“When’s the last time you ate?” I said, watching the Russian girl practically inhale the tacos al pastor.
“They fed us but never enough.”
“‘Us’?”
“Me.”
“‘Who fed you?’”
“The bad men. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Sure.”
The rain had started again. We ate in the truck down the street near a park. When she’d finished she leaned back and sighed with satisfaction. Then she let out a belch that sounded like a fog horn. “Izvinite,” she said. Then she laughed.
“That was quite a performance. Want me to get you some more?”
“No thank you.”
I didn’t want to ask too many questions—I knew what it felt like to be on the receiving end of an interrogation. But as if reading my mind she said, “It’s Sasha.”
“What?”
“My name. Sasha Dragomirova.”
“Dra-go-mi . . .”
“Sasha is fine.”
“Deal.”
We gathered up the trash and I hopped out of the truck and dumped it in a nearby receptacle. When I climbed back in, I found the glove compartment door open and Sasha holding my Glock. She looked at me without embarrassment as I leaned over, gently took the gun from her and put it away.
“Sorry,” she said. “It’s something I do. I wasn’t going to steal it. Are you cop?”
“No. Listen, maybe we should go somewhere and talk. About you.”
Her face clouded and she chewed her lip. “Thank you for the clothes and the food,” she said, grabbing the door handle. “I should go. I will tell no one about the gun.”
“I won’t stop you, Sasha. But you need help, right?”
Her voice became small—even more foreign. “No one can help me.”
“Well, like the cops on TV say, you’re free to go.”
Grabbing her bags she opened the door to get out and froze. Then quickly she jumped back inside, slammed the door and locked it.
“What is it?” I said.
“Drive!”
As I pulled into traffic and checked the rearview mirror, I saw it. Impossible! How she was mixed up with Walt Freeman and Hellborn I still didn’t know—I didn’t believe in Fate. There were only actions and consequences and God watching everything from a safe distance. I didn’t know what to think. I made sure not to drive too fast so as not to attract attention. But we had to get away—both of us. I prayed that they hadn’t seen us.
But they had.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Korean
A black Escalade accelerated through the downpour, swerving around vehicles to get closer to us. I didn’t know whether they were after Sasha or me. All I knew was that we had to get out of there.
“Buckle up,” I said.
As the rain pelted my windshield, I glanced left and right, checked the rearview mirror and floored it, barely making it through a congested intersection. Behind me, I heard a collision. When I checked the rearview mirror again, I saw the Escalade tearing past the chaotic traffic and picking up speed. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought I saw the undertaker riding in the back.
“Do you know those guys?” I said to Sasha.
“Yes.”
“Who are they?”
“Devils.”
As we approached the next intersection, another black Escalade turned sharply into traffic ahead of me. I’d already guessed how this would go down. The lead driver would slow to a crawl as the vehicle behind us accelerated. They would box us in. Then a third would appear and attempt a takeout, sending us spinning out of control. Finally they would kill me and take the Russian girl in plain view of everyone.
A break! As we shot past a convenience store, I noticed a cop pulling out of the parking lot. Though the last thing I wanted was to be pulled over by the police, it was way better than getting shot by a couple of government stooges. I slowed down and turned to Sasha.
“I need you to listen carefully,” I said. “No questions. Open the glove compartment and remove the gun.”
As I kept my eyes on the road, maintaining a safe speed, I began walking Sasha through the steps of disassembling a Glock 19.
“Press that button behind the trigger guard and remove the magazine.” She did so and the magazine dropped into her lap. “Great. The mag holds—”
“Fifteen bullets, I know,” she said.
“Oh.”
As I was about to give her the next instruction, she took out the bullets and held them in her hand. “What do you want me to do with them?”
“Throw them out the window.” At first she looked at me like I was crazy, then did as I asked. “Now the magazine. Okay . . .”
But she’d already retracted the slide and was inspecting the weapon for ammunition. I decided to remain silent as she squeezed the trigger, pressed the slide locks and removed the slide from the frame. She finished taking apart the gun and looked down at the pieces in her lap.
The lead Escalade had started to decelerate, as expected. Though it was hard to see in the rain, I checked the rearview mirror and made out the other Escalade, as well as the cop cruiser.
“Throw the pieces out the window,” I said. “One by one, waiting a few seconds in between.�
�
Soon, the entire gun had disappeared. Even if someone found one or more pieces, with the rain and the traffic, it would be difficult to recover everything and reassemble the weapon.
“How do you know about guns?” I said.
“My brother.”
“You have a brother? Why didn’t you—”
“We don’t talk.” She craned her neck behind her, then turned to me. “What now?”
“We bring the cops in.”
“Nyet, I don’t want this.”
“We have no choice, Sasha.”
I noticed an old man to the right of us, driving a broken-down Nissan sedan. Waiting for the right moment, I hit the brakes and swerved in behind him, surprising both Escalade drivers. Checking my side mirrors and the rearview mirror, I accelerated, swerving past the geezer and blasting my horn. It took a moment, but eventually the cop caught on and took off in pursuit.
As soon as he hit his lights and siren, both Escalades disappeared down a side street. Carefully I decelerated, found an open spot on the busy street and pulled into a loading zone with the cop screeching to a stop directly behind us.
“I don’t like cops,” Sasha said, her words clipped.
“Neither do I—trust me. But at least we’re alive.”
I’d already rolled down my window, letting the rain in. When the cop approached my car, his hand on his weapon, I smiled pleasantly. “Can I help you, officer?”
Based on my recent experience with cops in Tres Marias, I assumed that the encounter would be tense. He surprised me, though, looking at me through yellow-tinted aviator sunglasses, peering past me at Sasha and smiled pleasantly. I could hear the police radio in his cruiser blaring over the noise of the traffic.
“License and registration,” he said.
“Sure.” I reached over and removed the registration from the glove compartment. Then I pulled out my wallet, removed the driver’s license and handed both over. “Did I do something wrong?”
“Wait here,” he said and walked back to the cruiser.
“He will use computer,” Sasha said. “Will he find bad stuff?”
I touched her hand. “You need to not look so suspicious. Try to smile.”
She forced a hideous smile that made her look like a mental patient. As the cop returned to the truck, I grabbed Sasha’s side and began tickling her. Screaming, she burst into wild laughter.
“Mr. Callahan?” the cop said.
“Sorry, officer. I was just getting my sister back for tickling me while I was driving.”
He glanced at Sasha. “I’m going to give you a warning this time. You should be more careful.” Then to Sasha, “And no more distracting your brother, young lady.”
She nodded contritely. Then he handed me back my license and registration. “Have a nice day.”
One of the first things I did when I arrived in LA was to purchase several fake IDs from a guy on Alvarado Street whom Guthrie had recommended. Now that “Mr. Callahan” had had a run-in with the cops, I would have to lose that ID and employ a new one—especially since Walt Freeman probably had access to police records and could easily find me, based on this arrest. I’d have to ditch the truck too.
I checked the rearview mirror and spotted one of the black Escalades parked two blocks away with its headlights on. “Officer?” I said. “We were actually looking for City Hall. We adopted a rescue and I need to get a dog license. Can you point me in the right direction? I don’t really know the area.”
“It’s next to the police station. I’m going there now, if you want to follow me.”
“That would be awesome—thank you!”
“What kind of dog is it?”
“Mixed breed. Best I can tell, it’s somewhere between a German shepherd and a dachshund.”
“That must’ve been some date,” he said, laughing. “Wait for me to pull out.”
The driver of the Escalade was staring at the cop as he got into his vehicle and pulled into traffic. The undertaker leaned forward and said something to him. Then he pulled out too. But as I swung out behind the cop and followed closely, the Escalade turned off at an intersection and vanished.
“Udachlivy,” Sasha said, shaking her head.
“Huh?”
“It means lucky. ‘Mr. Callahan.’”
“Dave is fine. Sorry about the tickling.”
“It’s okay. You’re pretty good liar, Dave.”
“You have no idea.”
“Where are we going now?” Sasha said.
I’d followed the cop to city hall and parked and had even gone inside with the Russian girl. After ten minutes, we were on the road again. I checked my mirrors to see if we were being followed. So far, we were good.
“We have to get rid of this truck,” I said. “Then we need to find your brother.”
“No!”
“Why not? Isn’t he worried about you?”
“I can’t go back to him, that’s all.”
“We’ll discuss this later. I need to get you somewhere safe.”
“Can’t I stay with you?”
And there it was. I knew it the moment I saw her. It’s true that God puts things in your path. And you can choose to step around them or you can face them. He had done that with Holly—I was sure of it. I had been on a bad road, getting drunk pretty much every day with my friend. God had put Holly right in front of me in order to save me. Then He took her away.
When I looked at Sasha I saw a frightened girl who needed my help. I didn’t know how she was mixed up with Hellborn but I was sure that if it had anything to do with Walt Freeman, she was in mortal danger. Would I choose to step around her? I had made plans—plans that were certain to get me killed. Even the angel had warned me. But as usual, God had other plans.
“I’m not the safest guy to be around right now,” I said.
“Do you want to kill me?” She was looking at me intently, absently pulling at the sleeve of her sweater.
“No, of course not.”
“Then I will like to stay with you.”
The sky was threatening as we made our way to an industrial section of LA near the 6th Street Bridge. Though I’d never been here before, I recognized the famous location from movies like To Live and Die in LA.
I had memorized an address Guthrie had given me in Mt. Shasta. When I found it, I pulled slowly up to what looked like a junk yard surrounded by a high chain-link fence with concertina wire that ran along the top. Security lights on tall metal poles surrounded the property. The gate was closed and, as Sasha and I climbed out of the truck, butt-ugly pit bulls with huge yellow teeth attacked the fence, barking and snapping at us.
Sasha kept behind me, terrified of the dogs. I squeezed her cold hand as we waited in front of the gate. A heavyset Korean man wearing blue overalls and tan work boots stepped out of a small office and walked purposefully across the muddy lot towards us, holding a handgun at his side. He was chewing—we’d interrupted his dinner.
“Ggeo-jeo!” he said to the dogs. Immediately they swung around and trotted away. “What do you want?” he said to me.
“Are you Jeong?” He tightened his grip on the weapon. Though this guy intimidated the hell out of me, I tried not to show my fear and continued to maintain eye contact. “Guthrie Manson sent me.”
He relaxed. “I am Jeong.”
“I need a vehicle.”
Grunting, he gave the Russian girl a once over, unlocked the padlock securing the heavy chain on the gate and let us through. Scratching his testicles with one hand, he held out his other. For a second I didn’t know what he wanted, then realized he was waiting for my keys. I handed them over and he proceeded to check out the truck.
It took him ten minutes to examine everything—engine, suspension, bed and interior. Crawling out from underneath the truck, he pulled the papers from the glove compartment. Shaking his head in disgust he walked back over, grabbed my hand and inverted it. Then with grease-stained fingers, he dropped a small, dark object into it.
It was a 9mm bullet.
“Need to be more careful, Mr. Callahan.”
I was embarrassed. I had taken every precaution since leaving Northern California. If that cop in Montebello had searched my truck and found the bullet, he might have arrested us.
“Do you have any trucks?” I said.
“No trucks today. I can put you in a Lexus. Black with entertainment package. Very nice.”
“Too fancy. What else?”
“Go into the office and wait. There’s coffee.”
He followed us in, changed into clean overalls, jumped into the truck and drove it inside the yard. The office was surprisingly neat, furnished in Ikea. A large salt water tank stood in a corner. A generic laptop sat on the desk, next to cartons of Korean takeout and an open can of Coca-Cola. Along one wall stood a row of file cabinets and a large, expensive-looking color printer. Next to that sat a large, colorful gift basket filled with cans of Spam individually wrapped in cellophane.
“Sure you trust this guy?” Sasha said to me.
“I trust him as much as you trust me.”
Sasha watched the colorful fish in the tank. I picked up one of the cans of Spam, trying to figure out what the joke was. Some minutes later, I heard a vehicle approaching. I turned to find a late-model black Chevy Tahoe parked outside. Climbing out of the SUV, Jeong waved us over.
“Best I can do today,” he said, handing me the keys.
I walked around the vehicle. It was clean—not even a scratch. Though there wasn’t a lot of room in the back, it wasn’t a bad choice.
“What do you think?” I said to Sasha.
“Sweet ride.”
I turned to her, smiling. “Where did you hear that?”
“Napoleon Dynamite. I like that movie.”
“I’ll take it,” I said to Jeong. “How do we do this?”
“You good friend of Guthrie?”
“Yes.”
He looked up and to the side, adding up numbers in his head. “Even trade.”
“You sure?”
Even The Dead Will Bleed Page 4
