Robert Ellis: The Lost Witness

She glanced at the screen on her iPhone and groaned. It was 10:17 p.m. Exactly three minutes and twenty-one seconds since the last time she checked. Even worse, she had run out of people to call. No one was left on her speed-dial list.

She didn’t like waiting. And it was getting late, so late that it felt like the entire night was slipping through her fingers. A total bust while all her other friends were having fun.

She took in a deep breath and exhaled, watching the vapor fog the windshield. She shivered in the cold night air. It was mid-December in Los Angeles. Twelve days before Christmas. Last week it actually snowed in Malibu. She had seen it on the news. Kids riding down the hills on pieces of ripped cardboard. Snowmen overlooking Santa Monica Bay. It seemed like the world was coming undone and no one on TV was saying anything.

She shook it off, found the keys on the dash, and fired up the engine. Checking the heat vent, she adjusted the driver’s seat and tried to relax. After a while the fog began to clear from the windshield and she could see the motel and restaurant just past the Dumpster on the other side of the parking lot.

She could see the girls dressed in their sheer tops walking in and out of the place, the men eyeing them openly and hungrily as if they were riding cardboard sleds and had become little boys again. Faint bursts of laughter hidden in the wind began to push against the car. When she caught the scent of a wood fire, her eyes rose to the building’s roof. A neon rooster was mounted to the chimney. Below the rooster another neon sign read COCK-A-DOODLE-DO, THE BEST CHICKEN PIECES IN L.A.!

She giggled, then caught herself. Two men were staring at her. They were leaning against the rail outside the restaurant, smoking cigarettes while they picked chicken out of their teeth. It didn’t take much to guess that they were looking her way because this was the Cock-a-doodle-do, their stomachs were full, and now it was time for dessert. Even from a distance she could tell who they were and what they were. She moved her head into the shadows and looked at their low-rent faces. The creases on their foreheads and the deep lines around their eyes. Their cheap clothing from aisle seven at Wal-Mart. She wanted to tell them to stop looking at her. She wanted to tell them that she didn’t fuck truck drivers or losers, only doctors and lawyers, movie stars and agents-but she didn’t. Instead, she cracked open the window, fished her cigarettes out of her purse, and lit one. By the time she turned back, two blondes had approached the creeps and all four were purring.

Time to make nice, nice. Time to party and eat dessert. The best chicken pieces in L.A.

She watched them enter the motel-heard the door slam shut-dumbfounded that the Cock-a-doodle-do even existed. Nothing was hidden. One look and even the world’s biggest loser could tell exactly what this place was. She had been sitting here for what felt like half an hour. Two cops had driven by. One even pulled into the lot and waited with the engine idling while his partner ran in for takeout.

For the love of money, she thought. Lots of money. Enough money to grease the wheel. Enough money to cook the chicken. And even more for that dessert.

She took another drag on her cigarette, carefully blowing the smoke out the window and hoping that she wouldn’t catch hell for not stepping outside. Then she heard a truck pulling into the lot and smelled the exhaust. As the truck’s fog lights swept through the car, she squinted.

It was a bright red Hummer, or maybe even a Land Rover. She couldn’t tell through the glare, and either way, she hated both no matter what the color. She hated all SUVs and the stupid people who drove them. If she were cruising on the freeway right now and spotted the asshole, she’d give him the finger with the greatest pleasure.

SUVs were the reason it was fucking snowing in Malibu.

She listened to the oversized tires chewing up gravel as the machine lumbered by and pulled into a space somewhere behind her. The lights snapped off, then the gas hungry engine died out. She could hear someone singing “Jingle Bells.” A low, gruff voice cutting through the din. After a few moments the door opened and a man hopped out, but he didn’t look much like Santa Claus.

The truth was that at some level he appeared handsome, even cute. He looked about six feet tall, maybe a little less, with short blond hair. And he was just about the right age for her, mid to late thirties-the older type. But what she liked most about him was that he wasn’t wearing a jacket in spite of the cold night air. All he had on was a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. She could see his muscles as he slung a bookbag over his shoulder. His tight stomach and sturdy legs, his smooth, tan skin. The more she looked at him, the more he reminded her of an actor she couldn’t place. Someone on TV that had hit the wall, but bounced back on cable.

Rerun money.

She drew in smoke and tapped the ash out the window. The man must have noticed because he looked straight at her and flashed a dazzling smile. She couldn’t tell the color of his eyes in the darkness, but she could see the spark. Before she could wave back he turned and crossed the lot, legging it toward the Cock-a-doodle-do.

He wasn’t a doctor, she thought. And he didn’t look like any lawyer she had ever seen before. Maybe not even a real actor. But he was hot. Totally hot.

She checked the time again, but didn’t care anymore. Reaching for her iPhone, she fitted her earbuds in place and toggled through the menu. Late this afternoon she had downloaded the title track from the End Brothers new CD, U All In? When she found it, she hit PLAY, heard 187’s voice and slipped the device into her pocket. Then she waved the smoke away from her face and got out of the car to finish her cigarette. Maybe she’d even smoke another one without worrying about what the smell was doing to the car.

U all in, pretty woman.

U all in, little darl’n.

That’s right baby, u all in,

’Cause u cheated on your daddy,

And now u done.

She listened as 187’s brother, XYZ, began to chant-thinking about their rise to the top of the hip-hop charts. She took a last drag on the cigarette, rubbing the head against the Dumpster and tossing the butt in. Then she reached into her purse for a piece of gum and tossed the wrapper into the Dumpster as well.

And that’s when she saw him.

The man who wasn’t Santa Claus. The man who probably wasn’t a doctor, or a lawyer, or even an actor living off rerun money. The hot man with short blond hair who got out of that fucking red SUV singing “Jingle Bells.”

He was hiding in the shadows, staring at her. And he was close. He must have snuck around the row of cars when she turned her back. She could see the color of his eyes now, a vibrant blue, ice-cold and vicious. Even worse, he was holding something in his hand and pointing it at her. At first she thought it might be a squirt gun. But when he pulled the trigger, two barbs shot through the air right at her. She could see them clinging to her sweater. They looked like fish hooks, with two sets of wires running between her body and the gun. She could feel the fear. The confusion and panic freezing her in place. Her heart pounding as she scanned the parking lot and looked toward the Cock-a-doodle-do for help.

They were alone. All alone. Everyone was eating dessert.

The man started laughing at her, and then something flashed through her body. The jolt. The juice. A bolt of lightning so painful that it felt like her body had been cut in half.