Josh Stallings - Out There Bad

From a pay phone, I called Helen. Peter had arrived safely, he had then locked himself in Helen’s den and been on her computer ever since. There had been no time on the road for notes, he was reconstructing the events and attempting to write the story while it was still fresh.

Helen told me the girls were fine, a bit freaked out, but other than that, fine. She had been working the phones, calling on contacts to find out what to do with them. “There’s a group called Project Angel, out of Moscow, they have a local chapter. They work with trafficked girls. They may have some ideas,” she said.

“Sounds good. Tell Peter I’ll be around tonight, and Helen, watch your back. These Russian bastards aren’t going to be overjoyed with any of us for what we did down in Mexico.” After I hung up with her, I tried Gregor’s cell but got voice mail. His mother’s phone rang without being picked up. I knew Gregor could handle himself, but it still worried me. He should have picked up his phone.

Mikayla sank down into the soft seat on the bus. For the next few hours we were safe, there was nothing to do but try to relax and not worry about what was coming. Putting her hand on mine, she looked out the window. “I’ve never been with a man,” she said to the glass.

“Don’t think you’ve missed much.”

“I like you, Moses, but I don’t…”

“You don’t have to do anything. I’m too old to date, and too tired to fuck.” Leaning my head back, I let my eyes drift closed.

Downtown LA IS A human cesspool. By day, it’s populated by high roller power boys of the stock market, lawyers and political creeps. At night, the art-damaged hipsters and twenty-something slum Sinatras take over. And around them all swirl the homeless, the sad, broken, forgotten men and women. Some came here by choice, others were driven by madness or addiction. This was where you ended up when you ran out of gas, looks or luck.

In the bus station, I tried Gregor again without any luck. I called Piper at home, got her machine and dialed Club Xtasy. When Doc answered, he wanted to know where the fuck I was and when I was coming back to work. Turaj was still in the hospital, Gregor was MIA and Doc was pulling doubles. “I’m not sure Uncle Manny wants me back. Now put Piper on the line.”

“She’s on stage, you want her to call you?” He sounded petulant, which isn’t pretty on a large bald black man.

“I don’t care if she’s blowing the Pope’s ghost. Get her on the phone.” I could hear him shouting for her. It was still early, I doubted if they had more than two customers.

“This better be important.” Piper was out of breath. From her tone of voice, I would have bet one hip was cocked and her fist was on it.

“It’s me, baby.”

“Mo, where the hell are you?”

“Have you heard from Gregor?”

“No, he’s not answering his cell, I don’t hear dick from him, from you. What the fuck’s going on?”

“I’m at the bus station, downtown. I need a ride. Come get me and I’ll tell you everything.”

“What, you never heard of a cab?”

“I’m broke.” It wasn’t exactly true. Between Mikayla and me, we had a small fortune in pesos. And under twenty bucks in greenbacks. It took some more sweet tough talk, but Piper finally agreed. Doc would give her a ration of crap for leaving, but she could handle him. One of her killer smiles and the big guy would be a puddle on the floor. Mikayla was watching me when I hung up.

“Do you have many girlfriends?”

“Some, not like that, though.”

“Why not like that?”

“They won’t have me.”

“I don’t think that’s true.” She was looking at me as if I was some sort of interesting alien creature.

I walked up the block, hoping to find a currency exchange. Found several guys wanting to sell me chiva and a Korean man selling short dogs from a rusted shopping cart. But no one was willing to trade pesos for dollars.

Mikayla stood on the corner smoking. The sea of human sadness washed around her. She watched them without judgment. She’d seen worse places.

Fifteen minutes after the phone call, a white panel van threaded its way through the traffic towards us. Two dark skinned men sat in the front, the passenger was scanning the sidewalk with a little too much concentration for my comfort.

I stepped to the curb, when the man in van saw me he froze for the briefest moment, but it was long enough for me to know it was me he was looking for.

“This is wrong, let’s go,” I told Mikayla as I rushed past her. I heard tires squealing as we rounded the corner. Over my shoulder, the white van skidded through traffic. At the next corner, I turned up a one way street. It was going the opposite direction.

The van slid to a stop and four men jumped out of the side door. They were dressed in jeans and windbreakers and looked Middle Eastern.

We had a block lead when we hit Broadway. The crush of quitting traffic slowed the streets to a crawl and flooded the sidewalks. I plowed through the pedestrians with Mikayla running in my wake. A red Metro sign glowed ahead of us. Swinging down the stairs, I pushed my way down into the subway. We hit the red line just as the train pulled in. We were swept into the car with the swarm of commuters. As the train pulled away, I saw the dark skinned men moving on the platform, searching the crowd for us.

When we hit the dark of the tunnel, I looked at the map to see where we were headed. Hollywood, that would do fine. Any place with crowds to get lost in.

“What did we do to piss off the Arabs?” I asked Mikayla as we stood rumbling along.

“Israeli, I think they were Israeli,” she said.

“If you say so. Why are they after us?”

“I don’t know.” She was hiding something.

“Have anything to do with that whorehouse fire in Tel Aviv Peter was talking about?”

“Maybe.” She didn’t elaborate.

“Any other baggage you want to tell me about? Mexicans, Russians, Israelis… anyone else want to kill you? What about the Canadians, you ever do anything to them?” People in the car were starting to stare. I didn’t care.

“You know who I am. You know what I do,” she said softly.

By the time we reached the Highland station, my adrenaline had eased up enough for me to think a bit more clearly. Moving through the happy tourists in front of Grauman’s Chinese Theater felt completely surreal. A towhead boy put his feet over Bogart’s cement footprints while his mother snapped a picture. I winced with every flash bulb, reminded of the guns in the borderland. Mikayla took it all in with her same stoic calmness.

I found a cab in front of the Roosevelt Hotel, gave the driver an address in North Hollywood. I spent the entire ride watching for white vans and black Mercedes, LA had never looked less like home.

“Where the fuck is my truck?” Jason B was not a happy camper to see me walk up without the Scout. The cabby had been convinced to take the last of our US dollars and a small stack of pesos, he let us off up the block from Jason B’s shop. I had left Mikayla on the street, no need for Jason B to see her with me.

“Gone.”

“Gone? Gone? Forty grand’s worth of rolling stock, and all you can say is ‘gone’?”

“I need the Crown Vic.”

“How the fuck are you planning to pay for this destruction? You got cash? Didn’t think so. Fuck!”

“You know I’m good for it.” I was trying to remain calm.

“No, what I know is you look like a fucking bum on his last bad run. What I know is I’m out a primo ride worth a wedge of cash and now you want another car. Do I look like your bitch? You see a dress on me?” Spittle flew from his lips.