few hundreds and some smaller bills, so I leave fifteen bucks and put the wallet back. There’s a Blackberry in his pocket. Dog teeth break skin this time, but I’m betting it’s worth it. As my former neighbor would say, intel.
I’m just turning onto West Channel Road when the black-and-whites fly past me, lights flashing and sirens blaring. The shotgun cop in the third car whips his head around and checks me out, but I’m moving west, turning south on the Coast Highway, and there’s nobody behind me.
So, Ratboy’s got Mindy and wants to marry her. I should be enraged, clenching my teeth and ready to swing an axe, but it seems that my condition has put a damper on how I feel about things. That’s a good thing, because my temper has led to a lot of bad decisions in the past. Focus on the mission, that’s my mantra now.
There’s a vibration in my pocket, followed by a Hammond organ playing “Rock of Ages.” I fish out Hamel’s Blackberry and check the Caller ID. It says, “J Jr,” which I presume to be Ratboy. On a hunch, I pull into the Santa Monica Pier parking lot and turn off the engine.
Bad luck would be that Ratboy’s calling from a cell phone. Good luck and he’s calling from a listed land line. I pull up an online reverse lookup directory and enter the number. And there’s young Jason, right down the street in Venice.
Oakwood’s a part of Venice I generally avoid. First they gentrified Ocean Park and pushed the poor people farther into Venice. Then they yuppified Venice and left Oakwood to the black and Hispanic communities, along with the gangs. Now rising property values are pushing these folks out toward Inglewood, but I’ll bet there are still some Shoreline Crips and Venice 13s left.
I pull up in front of a crappy little apartment building named The Flora. There’s a hydrant, but what’s a parking ticket in my situation? I tuck Mo’s gun in my belt and cover it with my jacket. The crappy little apartment building has its own crappy little lawn, with a fence separating it from the sidewalk. The gate is halfway off its hinge. Dogs bark in stereo as I walk through and scan the mailboxes. Sounds like a beast on the right side, a big angry howl punctuated by snarling and a rattling of the apartment door.
Every box has a name except number 11, so I’m guessing that’s my man. I start up the stairway to the second floor but have to back down because a huge black woman is descending. She would be unpassable even if she turned sideways. Especially if she turned sideways. She’s wearing purple tights and some kind of sequined poncho. She squints down at me and says, “He gone.”
I say, “Who gone?”
She says, “Funny lookin’ white boy, look like a rat, and his go-rillafren’ and the trashy little white girl. They left ’bout ten minutes ago.”
I back down to the landing and let her pass. I get back in the Z. It’s getting dark out and I have no idea where to go. Mo’s gun is pushing into my thigh so I dislodge it from my belt but keep it under my jacket. I close my eyes.
Now I’m looking back at myself sitting in the Z. I guess I went into roam mode on autopilot. I float up the stairs and through the door to number 11.
The place looks like an animal’s cave. There’s laundry all over the floor and the kitchen area is a mess. The sink is full of dishes and greasy water. There’s a futon mat on the living room floor, but no pillow or blankets. I navigate to the bedroom and find a completely different world: everything in its place, miniature cars lined up in precision on a bookshelf; magazines on a table perfectly aligned with the corners; photographs of Jason Hamel Sr. and his son framed and hanging in perfect symmetry above a dresser topped with meticulously placed knickknacks and, as their centerpiece, a framed shot of the two Jasons and a woman, all smiling, Jason Junior’s braces catching the light, his face pathetically happy and eager to please. Another shot shows
I’m just turning onto West Channel Road when the black-and-whites fly past me, lights flashing and sirens blaring. The shotgun cop in the third car whips his head around and checks me out, but I’m moving west, turning south on the Coast Highway, and there’s nobody behind me.
So, Ratboy’s got Mindy and wants to marry her. I should be enraged, clenching my teeth and ready to swing an axe, but it seems that my condition has put a damper on how I feel about things. That’s a good thing, because my temper has led to a lot of bad decisions in the past. Focus on the mission, that’s my mantra now.
There’s a vibration in my pocket, followed by a Hammond organ playing “Rock of Ages.” I fish out Hamel’s Blackberry and check the Caller ID. It says, “J Jr,” which I presume to be Ratboy. On a hunch, I pull into the Santa Monica Pier parking lot and turn off the engine.
Bad luck would be that Ratboy’s calling from a cell phone. Good luck and he’s calling from a listed land line. I pull up an online reverse lookup directory and enter the number. And there’s young Jason, right down the street in Venice.
Oakwood’s a part of Venice I generally avoid. First they gentrified Ocean Park and pushed the poor people farther into Venice. Then they yuppified Venice and left Oakwood to the black and Hispanic communities, along with the gangs. Now rising property values are pushing these folks out toward Inglewood, but I’ll bet there are still some Shoreline Crips and Venice 13s left.
I pull up in front of a crappy little apartment building named The Flora. There’s a hydrant, but what’s a parking ticket in my situation? I tuck Mo’s gun in my belt and cover it with my jacket. The crappy little apartment building has its own crappy little lawn, with a fence separating it from the sidewalk. The gate is halfway off its hinge. Dogs bark in stereo as I walk through and scan the mailboxes. Sounds like a beast on the right side, a big angry howl punctuated by snarling and a rattling of the apartment door.
Every box has a name except number 11, so I’m guessing that’s my man. I start up the stairway to the second floor but have to back down because a huge black woman is descending. She would be unpassable even if she turned sideways. Especially if she turned sideways. She’s wearing purple tights and some kind of sequined poncho. She squints down at me and says, “He gone.”
I say, “Who gone?”
She says, “Funny lookin’ white boy, look like a rat, and his go-rillafren’ and the trashy little white girl. They left ’bout ten minutes ago.”
I back down to the landing and let her pass. I get back in the Z. It’s getting dark out and I have no idea where to go. Mo’s gun is pushing into my thigh so I dislodge it from my belt but keep it under my jacket. I close my eyes.
Now I’m looking back at myself sitting in the Z. I guess I went into roam mode on autopilot. I float up the stairs and through the door to number 11.
The place looks like an animal’s cave. There’s laundry all over the floor and the kitchen area is a mess. The sink is full of dishes and greasy water. There’s a futon mat on the living room floor, but no pillow or blankets. I navigate to the bedroom and find a completely different world: everything in its place, miniature cars lined up in precision on a bookshelf; magazines on a table perfectly aligned with the corners; photographs of Jason Hamel Sr. and his son framed and hanging in perfect symmetry above a dresser topped with meticulously placed knickknacks and, as their centerpiece, a framed shot of the two Jasons and a woman, all smiling, Jason Junior’s braces catching the light, his face pathetically happy and eager to please. Another shot shows
Similar Books
