T Parker - L. A. Outlaws

He tried to decide which man was more likely to jettison the law, abandon his morals and deliver a woman to be murdered for diamonds and silence. Maybe Marlon and Wyte were in it together.

But Suzanne Jones could blame no one but him.

Fuck you, Charlie.

The uniform with the camera came inside and started shooting interiors. Through the window Hood saw a deputy squatting and running a finger through the pine needles.

Detective Pettigrew set the video camera on the bed. “The schoolteacher is a brave lady. Maybe foolish. That could have been her head instead of a wig stand.”

Hood nodded. He wondered again if Suzanne and Lupercio had pulled the Miracle Auto Body job together and gotten crosswise after. He didn’t think so, but until a few minutes ago there were other things he hadn’t thought either, and now they wouldn’t leave him alone.

“Shit like this is why I don’t come down the mountain. You can have your animals, your whackos. When you’ve seen enough of them down there, you’ll find a way out of L.A.”

“I like L.A.”

“You’re young. You’ll either figure it out or you won’t.”

“I apologize, Suzie,” says Angel.

“I’m a big girl.”

“It’s necessary.”

He hands me the black sack and I put it over my head. Immediately I feel myself becoming Allison. A blind Allison. Of course the hood makes me think of Hood.

“It’s okay, Angel,” I tell him. My breath is hot under the heavy fabric. Solid black. I can’t even see a twinkle of oncoming headlights. “I know how these VIPs can be.”

“It’s necessary for both of you.”

“I said it was okay.”

“Please tie the strings behind your head.”

Last I saw we were in Angel’s Tundra pickup truck, the loaded one with the big V-8, headed south on Interstate 5. Now blinded, I can still feel him pulling over to the right lane, which puts us in place to pick up the 710 south toward Long Beach. But for the life of me I can’t tell if we’ve merged south or not. I hate this blindness.

So here’s the deal: Angel talked to the smartest, toughest-to-get fence in L.A. and told him about his friend Laura and my parcel of beautifully cut gem-quality diamonds. Angel has worked with him twice before and he says this man is dependable and professional. He is interested. He is not known for paying high but he understands quality. His name is Guy. Angel says he’s a man who will “buy and sell anything,” but I can’t tell if Angel is speaking with respect or denigration.

Guy’s five conditions for meeting me were: I am to arrive in the company of Angel and only Angel; I will be hooded for the last half hour of the journey to the meeting place and for the first half hour of my journey from it; I can bring no cameras of any kind, especially a cell phone camera; I will be checked for recording equipment; and I will not be allowed to be out of sight of Guy or one of his associates, including trips to the bathroom.

I asked Angel if I could arrive with a.40-caliber derringer in my purse and he said that Guy would have no problem with that, though I might want to declare it before the pat-down.

It’s almost midnight now, Friday, two nights after Lupercio used a LASD transponder signal to track me to the Gray Fox Cabins in Arrowhead. I can’t begin to explain how Hood’s betrayal and/or stupidity broke my heart. My mother used to describe my heart as “that little wooden thing in your chest,” but wooden or not it broke when I saw that device stuck to the chassis of my Sentra.

The first thing I did when I got away from my video session in Marina del Rey was pull over and check for homers. I was surprised to be treated as if I were stupid. I guess Hood had one of his buddies attach it while I was upstairs in the safe house trying on sunglasses. Safe. Right. Safe for whom?

I haven’t talked to Hood since except to cuss him out from Arrowhead. I’m afraid to call him because I’m afraid he’ll act dumb. It infuriates me when people act dumb. The best explanation Hood can give me is that he is not in league with murderers, but his bosses are. And all that really says is that Hood is incompetent and his superiors are without souls. So piss on all the brutes. You bet I know Heart of Darkness. I read it when I was fifteen at continuation school, working nights at Taco Bell and pregnant with Bradley. I was rereading it a few months later because I didn’t quite get what he was saying about race and power the first time. It was on my bed stand the night I shot Bradley’s father through the butt cheeks with the twenty-two. Some blood mist got on the cover and by the time I got around to wiping it off it had dried and stuck. I don’t think any of that was symbolic but I’ve never forgotten it.

So I slide down low and lay my head back against the seat and bump along in Angel’s Tundra-nice truck, Toy ota does a good job on the suspension, which is firm but nimble, and the lumbar support is just right though I can’t enjoy it slumped down like this-wondering if we’ve gotten onto the 710. But the hood is truly blinding so I finally just give up and try to breathe slow and shallow because it’s hot in here, even though I sense Angel, always the gentleman, adjusting the AC vents to blow directly at me. Slowly, going by feel, I move my GPU from the right-side waistband of my jeans-hidden by my loose blouse-to the seat.

“You could have made me happy, Angel.”

“I was too old and saggy and temperamental.”

“True.”

“But I would love to be young again, with you,” he said.

“That’s what you say to all your hotties.”

“It won’t be too much longer, Suzie. Be comfortable. You didn’t bring something unnecessary like a cell phone with a camera?”

“Of course not.”

“And the derringer in the purse?”

“It’s in there. You said -”

“It’s okay. It’s okay. I’ll make sure Guy knows.”

“I hate people who think they’re important.”

“His privacy is our privacy. It benefits all of us.”

“I really don’t like this hood, Angel. I’m claustrophobic. It makes me feel trapped and I hate that even more than people who think they’re important.”

“It won’t be long.”

“I’m going to recline the seat and meditate,” I say. What I do is recline the seat and dangle my GPU down between the door and the seat, then drop it. “Put on the news, would you?”

“Of course.”

“What do you think of that Murrieta chick?” I ask.

“She saved an old man’s life, so I admire her. The police will kill her, though. It’s unavoidable.”

I’m sitting on a leather sofa. It’s soft and smells good. When Angel lifts the hood from my head I look up at a beefy middle-aged man sitting on a dais above me. He looks like a cop even though I know he’s Guy, the fence, the man who will “buy and sell anything.” There’s a very long desk in front of him and the desk is littered with computers, monitors, printers, faxes, scanners, the works. The computer cases are made of a brushed aluminum and engraved with an abstract pattern that shimmers like the play side of a CD. The lights behind and above Guy cast long shadows down his face, and though his hair and forehead and cheeks are visible in bright relief, his eyes are hidden.

“Hello, Laura,” he says. His voice is clear and powerful. “I apologize for all the security. Thanks for making it easy. I’m Guy.”

He stands and leans over the desk and extends a hand. I stand and step forward and stretch out my own and we touch fingertips. He doesn’t bend very well and I wonder if he’s injured or just likes making me work hard to touch him.

A black man with a shiny head and a nice suit appears at my side.