Denise Hamilton - Los Angeles Noir

“Where’s the gun?” I ask, the brilliant idea being that I’ll take it from her and call 911 like a sane person. When she produces it I lunge for her, and to my utter and complete astonishment she fires at the floor next to my feet, drilling a jagged hole into one of the tiles and scattering dusty shards in all directions. I drop the cell and she kicks it out of reach.

“Fucking hell, Cherie. Way to wake up the neighbors.”

“I knew you were going to try and take the gun. Soon as you asked for it. Now, you listen.” She raises the gun so it’s pointing at my face rather than my belly. “You fucked me while he lay here dying, and that makes you my accomplice.”

Rather than pointing out the flaws in her logic, I concentrate on placating her. In between our words I discover that I can actually hear the thin whistle of Gary’s breath, and it occurs to me that I’d better get help to him sooner rather than later.

“All right, then, take his feet,” I tell her.

“I’m not putting down this gun.”

“I can’t carry 350 pounds of Gary up those steps all by myself.”

“We’re going downstairs, to the garage. Gary’s got a Hummer.”

“Hummer’s no good, it’s too conspicuous.”

“Fuck conspicuous, you do what I tell you. Take him by the feet and drag him.”

I start pulling him toward the staircase. It’s harder than I thought it would be, hauling a sixth of a ton of deadweight across the tile, harder still when I reach the carpet of the living room. Then Cherie starts down the steps ahead of me to turn the light on downstairs, and I step over Gary and kick her right in the ass. She stumbles-did I mention those heels?-and when she hits the landing with a squeal of pain and outrage, she twists around and fires at me. I’m already headed up that other set of stairs to the front door, though, and as soon as I cross the threshold I haul ass down the sidewalk toward my car. There are low-hanging branches in my way, and ducking under one of them I lose my balance and hit the sidewalk, scraping the hell out of my right elbow.

“Get back here, you fucking coward!” I hear when she gets outside, and I keep sprinting, secure in my assumption that she’s not crazy enough to open fire on the street.

The first shot hits the car parked in front of mine, and I dig in my pocket for my keys, then fumble with them for what feels like about a minute and a half before I manage to open the Saturn. I haven’t got the door closed yet when I turn the engine over, and the next shot shatters my driver’s side window. Wetting my pants, I say a silent prayer of thanks that I took a dump before I left Burberry’s. Chugging into reverse I jump the curb, and then I ram it into gear and make a U-turn, swiping an SUV, the passenger-side mirror making a horrible scraping sound against it. In the rearview I can see her standing there in the middle of the street, taking aim, and I swerve to my right as she fires again. It misses me by a mile.

The cell is back on Gary’s kitchen floor and there are hardly pay phones in L.A. anymore, not in this kind of neighborhood anyway. But there’s a supermarket at Sunset and Via de la Paz, and on a hunch I pull into the lot and find a pair of them mounted next to the doors. My engine is still running when I make the call to 911, and I can hear a siren coming from the south. When the operator asks me the nature of my emergency, I’m momentarily at a loss. I tell her Gary’s address and she says they’ve already got a prowl car on the way to the street after reports of shots.

Tongue-tied, I manage to get across that they’ll need an ambulance too, and that an armed, dangerous, and crazy woman is probably on the premises, cranked to the gills. “She’s an actress,” I add, in case additional precautions need to be taken.

After hanging up I slump against the wall, illuminated by my headlights, the breeze soothing on my wet pants front. I wonder how long until the sun comes up, and in the distance to the east I hear another siren approach, this one of a slightly different timbre than the first. I can feel the tension start to drain from my shoulders, and I put my weight back onto my feet just as I catch sight of a vaguely familiar, battered red Corolla pulling into the lot and heading toward me, the face behind the wheel bearing down on mine, jaws clenched so tight they’re bulging, and all I can think is how pretty she still looks.

Mar Vista

As I pulled into my driveway I saw my cousin Veronica sitting on the bungalow porch steps with her face buried in her hands. She heard my shoes snapping acorns on the path and looked up, stood, and came toward me. Her tank top revealed the butterfly tattoo on her shoulder. A rolled-up mat stuck out of her satchel. I tossed her my windbreaker: cool damp ocean air was coming up the street. I thought maybe she’d come over after yoga in nearby Venice to see if I wanted to go surfing-something we used to do as teenagers, on afternoons after she tutored me in math-but her eyes were bloodshot.

What’s wrong? I said. I noticed something blue on the side of her face and moved her hair aside. Did he hit you?

She flinched. No.

Your face is blue.

I told you, it wasn’t him.

Who, then?

Please, Tomas. I didn’t come over about this.

I crossed my arms. I asked her to explain. She glanced down as she fingered her satchel strap and told me she’d come to talk about her boy, Emerson.

She said, Manny went over and tried to confront the bully’s father, and he got beat up after carpool. Only a few blocks from school.

Some kid has been bullying Emerson? I said. My hands fisted, the pulse hot in my knuckles.

Yeah.

How long has this been going on?

Two months, I think. That’s when we started seeing bruises.

And you didn’t tell me?

Sorry, she said.

I bit my lip, tasted warm blood, looked down my street. In the June overcast, no shadows cast on the silvery asphalt, but the glare was enough to make me squint. Gulls squawked overhead.

Where does it happen? I said.

I don’t know. At school, we think.

And the teachers?

They don’t do anything.

Nothing? I thought they were big on PC stuff nowadays, teaching tolerance for people who are different.

Veronica rolled her eyes. She said, They talked to the kid we think is the ringleader, Harley Douglas. They talked to his parents. But nobody actually saw anything, and Emerson won’t say that Harley hit him, though he’s the one who picks on him the most. The principal promised to investigate.

I felt the heat in my face; my cousin did not come over much anymore, and now I knew what had brought her today. Emerson had a metabolic disorder that impaired his balance, sensitivity, and muscle strength, and caused developmental delays.

Emerson can’t really even talk, I told her.

He can, she said with slight annoyance; she shoved her clenched hands into my windbreaker pockets. Just not well. He claims he’s been falling on the playground.

And you’re sure he’s not?

Yesterday someone sliced his leg braces. Here, look.

She pulled them out of her backpack. The braces, a contraption of plastic parts held together by joints and straps, had been cut clean.

Motherfuckers, I said.

Tomas.

What did the parents say?

They didn’t believe us. Said we were making false accusations against their son. Then Manny went over to confront the guy, after he noticed Emerson’s slit braces. The father’s a soccer-dad from hell. Goes to all the school games. Eggs his kid on to commit fouls, yells at the other parents. The jerk beat up Manny in front of Emerson and Harley. He looks terrible. Needed twenty stitches.

Did he file an assault report?