Denise Hamilton - Los Angeles Noir 2

“Sure, whatever.” His big eyes are tugging at me. Pleading for me to let him live. I bet he has a wife and a child at home or a old mother he has to support.

I leave the fat boy and go into the kitchen. Talk about dirty dishes, all kinds of filth. There’s what I need on the table, still in the pan. Empty the cake into a plastic bag, and take my leave. In the living room I see Mr. Tub O’Lard’s gun, it’s a big one, something to have, so I put it in my other pocket and go to the door. Shit, it’s deadlocked. He’s got the key. Back in the bedroom, he’s out, slumped against the wall.

“I need the key.”

Oh shit. He’s out. He can’t be dead. I don’t touch the deceased. And he’s bleeding. I hate the sight of blood. Ugh, must I push him over?

“I got it. Kaiser card’s in the wallet.”

Oh, he’s not dead. Just delirious. Pants are too tight though. How I’m supposed to get the keys?

“I need the keys,” I say sweetly.

“Key? Oh yeah, the keys.” He reaches around into his back pocket, must be painful the way he’s flinching, but like the good boy he is, he comes up with them and tries a toss but they roll out of his hand onto the brown carpet that’s quickly turning red.

“Thanks,” I say and cut for the door. Must be nervous because I fumble with the keys, takes what seems like hours to get the door unlocked. Can’t be too hasty. Peek before you leap. The hallway is empty, but they’re watching, waiting to see who comes running out. Police are probably on their way. I crack the door open. One light for the whole hallway. Point Tub’s big gun. Have to use two hands to point this big thing. Smooth, that’s what you said. How to pull the trigger. Boom! Boom! Plaster flies everywhere. The light still shines. Damn gun just about broke my wrist. Boom! Boom! Boom! There she blows and I’m in the dark. Drop the gun outside and run. The two lowlifes watching from across the street scatter when they see me coming but I bet they’ll sneak over and find Fat Boy’s gun before the police get here. It’s worth a dozen rocks.

“They’re shooting in there!” I yell. Sometimes it’s good to state the obvious. I get to my car, throw myself in and burn rubber up the hill. In the rearview mirror I see the red and blue strobes snaking onto Hillcrest. Good, Don Diablo. Who named these streets? I hit the garage opener and pull the car in. See, Douglas, it’s not hard to get what you want if you know what you want and you’re willing to work for it. Now if I wanted to die, all I would have to do is leave this car running and close the garage door and inhale. Sure, this Lincoln would have shit-stained seats but that wouldn’t be my problem. But I don’t have a problem, at least not right now. I’ve got cake in my pocket. Crack off a piece, a nice-sized chunk, and fit it into the pipe and fire it up. The red flame turns blue and I can see myself in the rearview mirror. My eyes, pupils are wide as plates, couple of full-lunged hits, though, shrinks them to the size of pinpoints. The buzz-expand-run-run-run till the soft spot hums. Is that it? I try another and another and another till every part of me hums. How much do I have to smoke till I get enough? I don’t know but we’ll find out.

I don’t sleep, just close my eyes, but when I open them again, I see the pipe in my stiff fingers. Still lots of night left. I much prefer the night. Maybe that’s what I am, a vampire. Sucking smoke instead of blood. I really have to stop this, Douglas. There’s no future in it. And though you couldn’t see life without the pipe, even you should be able to appreciate my position. I’m carrying your child. You wouldn’t want “it, the unknown” for your firstborn? Well, it wouldn’t truly be your firstborn, but those poor, drug-addled tramps that carried your seed don’t count. I count. Because I’m the queen of your desire, or is it the bitch of your desire. Anyway, let’s be honest. I’m going to smoke that baby to hell.

“Get up. You’re going!”

Oh, it’s morning. I’m in bed and here’s Uncle Jack and the rest of his merry crew. He just yanks me up and marches me through the house to the car. And doesn’t Mother look disappointed. She slides in next to me, Uncle Jack takes the wheel, and my butterball of an aunt gets into the backseat. I guess it’s time to go to where they put people like me. To the funny farm where life is gay all the time. The garage door swings open and we pull out into the bright light of day. Mother is crying again as usual, but she wants to say something, gagging on the words.

“How could you? We trusted you.”

“It’s too bright. I need sunglasses.”

“We aren’t stopping so you can run off. You know where you’re going.”

They’re really going to do it this time.

“We found the drugs. A whole pocket full. How much did it cost? How’d you get the money?”

“I got it for free.”

“She got it for free, hah. What did you sell?” Uncle Jack says. Mother is crying buckets. What a callous thing to say in front of her.

“I certainly did not sell anything that you’re implying. I got it for free. I have ways.”

“My God, she needs help,” Uncle Jack says.

And here’s the hospital.

“Emma, you park the car. I’m walking this young lady in.”

Uncle Jack slams the brakes, stopping us right behind an ambulance, slides out from behind the wheel and pulls me along, my robe comes open but he doesn’t wait. It’s like being on a roller coaster the way he’s pulling, jerking me one way and then the other.

“What’s the rush?” I say, digging in my heels.

He looks at me, his brown face wonderfully twisted in a perfect sneer.

“How could you bring that shit into my house.”

“But Uncle Jack, it’s so expensive. I couldn’t just leave it outside.”

His hand flashes up and smashes me across the face. I spin out of his grip and run for the sliding doors. But he has me, carries me, squirming mightily to the nurse’s station.

“We’ve made arrangements for this young lady.”

He’s in great shape. I’m twisting around like my dog used to do, twirling against his chest, but his grip doesn’t break. The robe opens all the way, my pink panties are for the world to see. The nurse looks embarrassed for him. Mother and Aunt Emma walk into the lobby and see me wrapped in Uncle Jack’s arms, ass out, the robe all about my shoulders like a straitjacket, and are even more embarrassed. The nurse gets it together. I’m too tired to keep up the fight so I watch as the forms are presented and signed. And everyone looks relieved to be getting the paperwork out of the way.

“Wait a minute! They can’t commit me. I didn’t sign anything.”

The nurse barely looks at me, instead she shuffles papers. “You’re not being committed. This is a drug treatment program. They’ve placed you in our care. The doctor will be out shortly to explain to you how our program works.”

I nod enthusiastically. “That sounds great. I can’t wait!” I shout and the nurse flinches.

Oh, since the papers have been signed, two big men in white suits appear, and they have a wheelchair I suppose they want me to sit in. I wonder if I could make it to the sliding glass double doors. Wild on the streets once again. But don’t I need this. Don’t I need to find out why I’m the way I am. Don’t I need to dry out for the baby’s sake, don’t I, Douglas? Isn’t this all a pathetic cry for help? Yes, I guess it is. I’m one sick bitch. It’s bright and sunny here in this lobby, with fine, sturdy, modern furniture in soothing pastels. It might be time for a change. The doctor, balding and thin, comes up. He’s wearing running shoes. He extends his hand. I extend mine. I shove hard against his chin and knock him into Uncle Jack and it’s off to the races.