I slept.

I woke up and stared at my article.

I hit send and held my breath.

I hit up the Volt for some cash.

I missed my crew at the bar.

I missed the smell of her shirt.

 

 

Saturday, August 22nd, 4:51 p.m.

 

For all its depressing spirit, insufferable lonely souls, and bad oxygen, after a night at Patriot Strong, walking into The Damned Lovely felt like burst of beautiful sunshine.

I regaled the troops with the latest sordid tales of Sam the sleuth. They lapped it up.

The mansion.

The wealth.

The ladies and drinks and free food all wrapped around a demented wild man people called Magnet Max. I kept a tactful lid on the Margaret chapter but hinted at glory and rounded it off with the payoff sting: the smile on Margaret’s face behind my back that shivved my heart.

They wanted the next chapter. What now, Sammy? Hell if I knew.

I was bent. Happy to hit pause and drink for two days. I needed to step away from those roaches in Long Beach. But deep down I knew that wasn’t gonna happen. Because, deep down, there was a blinding problem.

It was Max.

It was that I believed every goddamn word he said.

I believed they were together. Why else would he come at me, so charged like that?

I believed he seduced her. And that Josie was probably ashamed to be with a man like him. Ashamed for being so attracted to him. That’s why she was so secretive. Why she never wrote about him, or talked about him to her friends and family.

I believed he scratched her up. And worst of all, I believed she liked it.

I believed she had an agenda, just like he said, but I still didn’t know what it was.

But above all of that, I still believed he killed her. Or someone in his circle did.

I just didn’t know how the hell I was going to prove it…

I needed some professional advice and laid it all out for the aged-out fuzz. Jiles chimed in, said it was a no brainer. And, he added, never as interesting or compelling or dynamic as you wanna it to be:

“Money. It’s no secret. If it matters, there’s money. It’s always about the money. Money’s at the heart of everything.”

But even I knew that was only half the equation. “You mean money and sex?”

“Money is sex,” Jiles barked as he filled some pints. “It’s power. People want money so they can eat fine food and fuck the people they wanna fuck. Money buys CLASS. Cases like these? A mansion in Long Beach? Rich and crazy young people? It’s always about the money. Sex always comes second to money.”

Slice tagged in, “It’s true, chief. Except in the case of psychopaths and sociopaths who throw a wrench in the system. That’s why they’re so fascinating and people come up with stupid stories and dumbass movies about ’em. And why they got even dumber super detectives like Sherlock Holmes.”

“And if you don’t buy Pinner’s theory that this was a serial killing, you don’t need Sherlock Holmes to solve this case. Guaranteed it’s just about money,” Jiles eagerly pointed out. “Which is good for you, cuz you’re no fuckin Sherlock Holmes. You’re fuckin’ Sam.”

These guys.

No wonder I loved ’em.

They backed my play. I don’t know if they believed me. Hell, they probably backed Pinner’s theory, too, when he was buying a round for the bar, but I knew they weren’t out to mess with me.

Then something weird happened.

My phone rang.

It was Daphne. My agent. I didn’t recognize her voice at first because she wasn’t all bitter and rushed.

“I read your article. It’s fantastic. Who have you sent this to?”

“Nobody.”

“Perfect. Don’t. I wanna run with this before it gets published. But, first, I need to ask you and you need to be honest with me: is this actually real?”

“Yeah.”

“This man…Slice? He’s real?”

“Yeah.”

I turned my head and stared at the glassy eyed drunk sitting next to me, picking his fingernails.

“Do you own his life rights?”

“His what?”

“I’m gonna presume that’s a no. Well, leave that with me for now. I’ll cross that bridge when it’s time. Anyway. Good job, Sam. I think we can sell it and set something up. Make some real money. I’ll be in touch. Don’t show the article to anyone.”

She cut off the call and my eyes hit a stain on the wall behind the bar. I stared, transfixed, almost confused.

Slice and Jiles stared back, wise that something was up. “What gives, chief?”

I wanted to jump and shout and buy rounds for my allies but knew in my jaded—call it cynical, call it wisdom-filled—heart that this was nothing more than another phone call loaded with unbankable promise. And I was so tired of promise. I can’t live off promise. Which means I have to live with Nick. I needed money and action, and a contract. I needed free lunches and an expense account, not more promise.

So I took a sip of booze, and answered honestly.

“Probably nothing.”

 

 

Saturday, August 22nd, 10:58 p.m.

 

Six hours later I was still perched on that stool. A filthy, unattractive stint. An ugly admission of vice. That said, it was damn productive. A couple hours in, I’d cut out to do some research in the box. If Jiles and Slice were right, then I needed to learn more about the money trail attached to Patriot Strong. But I couldn’t pull any leads off the web. Margaret had said that Max’s podcast paid for the operation which always seemed highly improbable. I mean, it’s a goddamn podcast. Two guys ranting in a studio. And they didn’t have millions of followers on any social media platform. I listened to an episode of Max interviewing some fanatical pastor outta Memphis and there were ads peppered in but all from local businesses clearly grasping at straws to beef up sales. There weren’t sponsored by any big national brands. Which meant they couldn’t have been reaping cash off that outlet. And as for the mothership, Patriot Strong only had a bare bones website listing its mission and players and standard contact us drivel. There were no visible sponsors or entities willing to publicly back them. But someone had to be forking over a lot of money to keep the lights on and the fires burning over at the mansion of hell.

So who was it? Was that what Josie stumbled onto and threatened to expose in that email she sent to jimmyface999? It was by far the most promising avenue of investigation. But how the hell was I gonna figure it out?

I stared at that denim shirt, soaking up Josie’s spirit, praying for inspiration, but the smell of my beloved had started to fade. I refused to layer on detachment metaphors and kept drinking back at the bar.

Some luck came my way in an alcohol-induced aha moment of clarity after Jewels crossed behind me holding a tray of pints, her shapely tattooed arm held high and mighty. Impressive, I croaked, and she clocked me a genuinely kind smile that, for the sick reason of simply being a man, reminded me of sleeping with Margaret. Which led to the moments before sleeping with Margaret when I stumbled into their office.

The office. Those filing cabinets. Computers. Accessible, ripe intel.

It was a terrible plan.

It was a long shot.

It was dangerous.

And it ran counter to everything I swore I wouldn’t do: go back to Patriot Strong’s headquarters. But, I liked the idea. I wanted to steal from those bastards. Right out from under their nose. Steal their precious list of donors and leak it wide, forever ruining anyone attached to that cancerous ideal. And then I pretended this had nothing to do with wanting to see Margaret again. Pretending not to think about her wet skin in the shower. Of touching her again. I did a good job, convincing myself she had nothing to do with this ugly, dangerous plan of attack.

 

 

Friday, August 28th, 1:00 p.m.

 

Six days later I still hadn’t heard from Daphne.

Nothing

Not a squawk.

Promise.

 

 

Saturday, August 29th, 6:22 p.m.

 

I was back on the 5. This time, without Nick yapping in my ear. But thanks to Nick I’d learned they were having another bender to celebrate some Southern Confederate loser on this night. My ass tightened just thinking about the fire I was about to march into. The pain of the ignorance I was about to be subjected to.

But once again, good ol’ race-forward thinking Oli was workin’ the front door and greeted me with nothing but smiles and genuine kinship.

“Welcome back, amigo!”

I played the part.

I graced curious and wide-eyed.

I smiled like a good soldier.

And the party was pumping. On the surface it was nothing but pretty faces and booze. Cheers! and Cheers! with happy white people uniting. I didn’t see Max but I could feel him. Channeling my inner liberal-ass Jedi power like I’d sensed his presence…He was near. I truly wondered if he could he feel me back.

I grabbed a Bud Light, intent to stay sharp, and ambled through the proceedings. I talked with Oli who was glad, or so he claimed, to see me once again. As he applauded my return, I saw Margaret across the pool. She was talking to a face I recognized but had to run it through until—bam! Yellow Beamer. Penis Boy. Cigarettes in the kitchen. Nick’s alpha mates drinking rum. I wasn’t surprised to see them but wanted to steer clear knowing they would only draw attention. I needed to get into that office and get out fast. So I buried the burning desire to talk to her and instead slunk to the edge of the yard, chatting with some college students outta Chatsworth. I peppered them with questions to take the focus of myself and it worked until before long a hush fell over the crowd and the man himself, Mr. Magnet Max, emerged, welcoming folks, talking up his podcast and the night’s celebrated guest.

This was my time.

I edged out and found the stairs to the third floor.

I passed a couple girls coming out of the bathroom who looked guilty of doing blow as I walked down the hall. When I reached the office, it was locked.

I hadn’t counted on that. I considered trying to use a credit card like they always do so easily in movies, until I saw that the lock had a childproof pinhole access in the middle of the knob. I rushed down the hall and found an open empty bedroom with a desk that had some pens inside its top drawer. I grabbed one and rushed back to the office, pulling out the thin black ink cartridge tube. Then I jammed in the plastic tube to try to unlock it, just as I’d seen my buddy Roger Morfidis do in eleventh grade when Sarah Wheeler passed out after barfing and locked herself inside his mom’s bathroom. As I fished around, trying to unlock it, I wondered whatever happened to Roger. He was super cool. Always had the cleanest, crispest baseball hats that—

Click.

The lock let loose and I stepped inside the dark office. Afraid my phone’s flashlight would draw too much attention, I waited for my eyes to adjust, and after what seemed like a goddamn eternity, was able to make out the surrounding dark room. I started by waking up the computer but as I suspected it was password protected. Next up were those filing cabinets. I opened them slowly and quietly, then rifled through the files. They were mostly filled with boring appliance manuals and extermination contracts. But I kept digging until finally a folder titled FUNDRAISING EVENTS caught my eye. The docs inside listed itemized groups of entities who’d contributed to the fraternity.

I buzzed with victory.

I took out my phone and snapped pics. But then quickly realized the folder was at least thirty pages thick and there was no way in hell I wasn’t gonna risk the time it would take to get a shot of each page. So I shoved the entire folder into the small of my back and covered it with my shirt.

Then, I inched open the door and the hallway was clear. I edged out, jacked with adrenaline, praying to god I wouldn’t see anyone, when instead I found myself face to face with Penis Boy.

I kept my head low and booze-slurred hard. “…heeey man, do you know, know where the bathroom is?”

He pointed down the hall and stepped aside. My performance was both natural and compelling. There was no way in hell he recognized me as I shuffled into the bathroom and waited a few moments. Then, with no sign of Penis Boy still in the hallway, I shuffled down the stairs and made for the exit near Oli’s perch.

“That was quick, bro! Going so soon?”

“Yeah. I’m not feeling well. Something just hit me.”

“Oh, that sucks. Well, feel better—hope to see you again.”

I kept walking, out the front and down the outside steps until Oli’s voice called out one last time.

“Hold up a sec’ dude!”

I stopped. Turned and saw Penis Boy talking to Oli. He was nodding his head.

“I really don’t feel good, I think I’m gonna be sick—”

“HOLD UP, man!” My gregarious race-forward thinking padre was advancing now, flanked by Penis Boy and two hulking male beasts.

I could’ve run.

I needed to run.

Run!

Right now!

RUN!

Do it now!

But no. My petrified feet stayed tight to the ground as a swell of testosterone surrounded me.

Penis Boy piped up, “Yeah, he was coming out of the office. And the computer was on.”

Oli was legit angry and put on his bad cop pants.

“What the hell were you doin’ in there?”

“Nothing…I got lost. I thought it was the bathroom.”

“Then why’d you turn on the computer?”

“The computer? I don’t know, I musta knocked a chair into the desk and it woke up or something…”

Oli eyed me skeptically just as Penis Boy realized the inevitable.

“Wait…I know you. I was in your house. You’re Nick’s roommate. You were talkin’ shit about us that night. What the hell are you doing here?”

“It was a mistake. I feel really sick, can I just go please.”

“Not just yet. Feels a little weird, bro. Just chill for second.” Oli was going all good cop now. “You didn’t do anything wrong, right? We’re just talkin’.”

And then Max emerged from the side of the house, his lieutenants whispering in his ear on approach, eyeballing me with ugly curiosity.

“You’re back,” Max oozed. “And snooping inside our office?”

“I wasn’t snooping, I got lost and—”

“Did you search him?”

“No.”

Max nodded to one of the beasts. “Mario. Search him.”

Mario started patting me down. I looked at the pavement and stared at his ugly ass steel-toed cowboy boots and, as he felt the crisp file-folder wedged against my back, a small dribble of piss leaked outta my dick. I clenched and barely managed to jam the pipes shut in time. As if that was going to make anything better.

Seeing the folder, they got quiet and cold, surrounding me now.

“Should we call the cops?” Oli asked, as he handed Max the folder.

“No.” Max slowly leafed through the papers. “Why did you take this?”

I tightened up and let loose. “Because I was paid to. Someone contacted me anonymously. Someone named Rosebowl2003@gmail.com Venmoed me two hundred bucks upfront and said they’d pay me another three hundred upon delivery for a list of anyone responsible for contributing money to Patriot Strong. I was to drop any information into a garbage can in front of the House of Pies at Vermont and Franklin at one a.m. tonight. But I don’t know who they are. I’m broke. I needed the money. It was a stupid thing to do, and I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have done it.”

Max blank-faced me and dug my phone from out of my pocket, coolly asking, “What’s your password?”

“Nine-two-nine-nine.”

More piss pushed through. But my story felt solid just like I’d rehearsed it on the drive down. Except for the sorry part which I added cuz that was true at the current moment. Did they buy it? What is Max doing now, anyway? I edged up my eyes and caught a glimpse of the screen.

It was my Venmo account.

“You didn’t get paid two hundred bucks.” Max said smoothly.

“No, see, here’s the thing—”

I lunged and pushed through the hulking monsters, desperate to escape when a fistful of nails scrapped my ribs and shirt and pulled me back into the scrum where some knuckles ripped into my face. The world flashed white and stinging tears and blood exploded out of my face. I balled a fist and let loose on someone’s jaw before a second even stronger fist smashed my ribcage. Then more pain tore inside as fist after beastly fist pummeled my liver and kidneys and spleen.

I crumbled to the ground, as the beasts went to work, those steel-toed cowboy boots busting my face and bones and entire body until my world went black.

 

 

Saturday, August 29th, 9:18 p.m.

 

Pain tore through my spine and ribs and face when I finally regained consciousness. My left eye had swollen completely shut but I could make out a crack of reality through my right one. I was hunched behind the wheel of my car. The sonsofbitches had the decency to decimate my body, unlock my car, and then politely place my sticky, half-dead carcass behind the wheel. And then they smashed up the front of my car to make it look I’d gotten into an accident.

It hurt to breathe.

It hurt to move.

It ALL hurt.

I opened my mouth and let out a gob of blood-filled fluid that dripped off the edge of my seat. I needed water. I swiveled my eyeball around and found a half-drunk bottle of Arrowhead in the console. I inched my arm over to it and slowly lifted it up to my lips, sucking back the liquid. It was cold and godlike. Then I saw my face in the mirror. At least a part of my face. The other part was purple, yellow, and puffy bad. I kinda looked like Popeye. All round and chinny. I pretended to find it funny and laughed like this was just a little bump in the road. Like I was gonna be okay.

And my feet hurt. Both of ’em burned something fierce. What the hell did they do to my feet? I couldn’t bend over to see cuz it hurt too much.

I thought about driving home but everything wailed in agony so I closed my eyes, hoping the pain might get better with sleep or something.

 

 

It didn’t.

I woke up later.

Same agony.

But I knew I had to get out of there. If not to a hospital, somewhere better than this trashed car on the side of a road on these pretty Long Beach streets in the middle of the night. Thankfully my keys and phone were still in my pocket. The beasts were so kind as to let me have them. Rich pricks probably laughed at the sight of my outdated iPhone.

I pulled out my phone.

I shoulda called an ambulance.

I shoulda called for help.

But, no. I punched the ignition and said to hell with good reason and my seat belt. They had smashed my front window, but I could see through the spider web cracks enough to make my way down the street. I knew I wouldn’t be able to rip sixty-five miles per hour down the I-5 so stuck to surface streets, streaming through the empty, foggy roads.

As I puttered home I thought about my options. A wise man would go to the hospital and get checked out. Look at the X-rays. Check for internal bleeding. Cranial fractures. Concussive somethings.

This man would also wisely have good medical insurance.

I was not this man. I was not wise. And I did not have good insurance. But I did know a good doctor.

Well, I knew a doctor.

 

 

Saturday, August 29th, 11:18 p.m.

 

I couldn’t wait to see the look on their faces. Really.

I was broken, bleeding, and in a baaad way. But they were gonna love it. Not the fact I was busted but the drama. A change in pace. Something they could see just sittin’ on the stools. Like fresh chum in the water. And they were gonna feed off this tale for months. The day they broke Sammy.

I pushed open the door but nobody turned my way. It felt like time got all stuck as The Ovations were crooning about blue skies and the day we all fell in love.

Jiles finally looked up from cutting some limes and bellowed, “Oh Jeezuz. Slice, Jewels—help him out, will ya?!”

They shouldered my crippled body straight into the box, peppering me with questions along the way. I gave them the base facts.

“Got in a wee tussle.”

I could hear Jiles shouting, “I just saw him. Well, find him! He’s around here somewhere, for chrissake!”

God bless that man. He got me. He got my ticket.

They lay me down on the stinky loveseat in the corner. It felt close to heaven, lying down like that finally.

Slice chimed in. “They did a number on ya.”

“You should see the other guy, Slice.”

“Yeah, buddy. I know it.”

Jewels stared at my face and started to cry some. “Sam. What happened, Sam?”

“A little nudge on justice, Jewels.”

She held my hand and I loved her for it.

“What the hell are you doing here? You need to go to a hospital.”

“Where’s Pa?”

“Stop it. You need proper care, you need—”

“I can’t afford proper care, Jewels!”

Jiles ushered Pa into the box. He looked a little wobbly. He looked right wasted. Who could blame him, it was well after six p.m., after all.

The old timer angled up and tried to focus on my face. I’m pretty sure he could tell it was me as his bushy eyebrows bounced, surprised but concerned no less.

“What happened, Sam?”

He started touching my face. Those smooth cold pads actually felt nice.

“They got me good, Pa. Four of ’em, I think. At least four. We didn’t see eye to eye tonight.”

“What hurts?”

“All of it. My face. Hurts to breathe, too.”

Pa unbuttoned my shirt and felt around my chest and guts. “I think you have a broken rib. Maybe two. Have you been coughing blood?”

“No. I don’t think so.”

“Good. That means it didn’t puncture your lung. What time did it happen?”

“I don’t know…eight thirty maybe?”

Pa looked at his watch all wobbly, in and out from his face for focus.

“It’s eleven twenty!” Jewels barked.

He rocked the math. “Right. We still got time. Jewels, where’s the first aid kit?”

“He needs to go to a hospital and see a real doctor!”

“I am a real doctor.”

“My insurance is shit and I’m broke, Jewels.”

She huffed off.

She was right.

She was the best.

“Your eye is busted open pretty good. I’m gonna have to suture it up.”

“You sure you’re okay to do this?”

He grinned a toothy smile. “Are you kidding? Like riding a bike. Jiles, do you have any superglue?”

“Superglue?” Slice weighed in like the wary assistant coach.

“Same as the hospital uses. They just got a fancier name. Binds the skin.”

Jewels raced back in with a metal first aid kit ripped straight outta the 1970s. The rust alone made me shutter.

Pa said he was gonna go wash his hands. Thank god.

I edged Slice in closer. “How far in is he, Slice?”

“What do you want me to say? It’s almost midnight.”

“You think he can handle this?”

The man weighed in. “He seems confident. But sounds like you don’t have a lotta choices here. Pony up for a real doc or take Pa. But I mean…you gotta fix that eye one way or the other.”

When he came back in Pa was barking to Jiles like something wasn’t right. Before long they pulled in Lily who was clasping a purse-sized emergency sewing kit and she saw me all laid out. “Ohmygod Sam. What’ve you done?”

“I nudged justice, Lily. You’d be proud…”

I’d rehearsed the “nudged justice” line on the drive in, knowing I’d be hit with questions. I like the way it sounded. Lily didn’t seem to at all. She just looked sad.

People kept coming in and out. Jiles rolled back in with some fresh white bar towels and a bottle of bourbon.

“All yours, kid. On the house.”

I took a deep pull and the warm booze glugged down my throat. It tasted beautiful and sweet and wrong. But it felt good, like I needed the liquid. Any liquid.

Pa walked back in with dripping hands and wiped them on the fresh towel. He looked me square in the eyes with surprising focus.

“You sure you wanna go through with this?”

I knew this moment would come. Before the pain. I’d wrestled with that very question driving back from Long Beach when I couldn’t see much but knew my face would need stitches. This meant going to a doctor or a hospital. This also meant with my garbage insurance I would need to pay for a doctor or a hospital. This absolutely meant I would be forced to call my father for money. I would hear that deep breath of air before he answered, that sucking back of oxygen where his loathing, his disdain of everything I’d NOT become would woosh up into his body, then get pushed out into the world and onto me with a pained hate as he would utter, “Okay, son.”

So it was in that moment, that moment driving in, when I’d already answered Pa’s question.

“Yea. Lemme suck back some of this bottle and let’s get it over with. But pass me that denim shirt.”

Jewels handed her over and I pressed it to me like some kinda shield. Then, I plundered the booze and, as we waited for it to smash my bloodstream, Jewels had the good sense to tell Pa to drink some water while she walked two blocks to the CVS and bought some numbing cream, rubbing alcohol, tape, gauze, and a bunch of other stuff that looked like a right blessing.

At one point even the Rooster walked into the box. He took in the scene with unflappable poise. Like this was exactly what he expected to see.

“We’ll hold you down,” Jiles said. He seemed almost excited. As if moments like these were his rebellion against the slow death of retirement.

Jewels was about to step away, but I asked her if she’d stick around.

“Why?”

“Cuz you’re prettier than all these slugs and I gotta focus on somethin’.”

She was still none too impressed that they were gonna let Pa, our in-house disgraced inebriated ex-surgeon, sew up my face, but I smiled at her and she got cool.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Pa wave a needle through a lighter’s flame.

“Tell me again about those tattoos, Jewels.”

The booze was going to work and Jewels got the drift, and out of pity or friendship or mercy or a mix of ’em all, accepted that we fools were gonna actually do this so she may as well help.

She came closer and lifted the underside of her arm, the soft white side, and she started telling me about her aunt and a crow—that was the tattoo: a woman and a crow intertwined with a vine. And as she rattled on, Pa dabbed my face with rubbing alcohol and numbing cream, and Rooster and Jiles clasped my hands down hard, and the drunk surgeon pierced my swollen flesh with a razor hot needle and I wanted to scream and punch and rail but I bit down hard on my tongue and pretended to really really really care about Jewels’s aunt and the stupid crow who represented death as the pain screamed through my face and Pa squawked that I was doing good Sammy, doin’ real goddamn good and we’re almost through now and for the first time I felt he, this drunk mess of a man, actually knew what he was doing, like the ol’ chap was in his element as the bourbon hit me just right and a wave of this IS gonna be okay rippled through me and Jewels god bless her cuz she was crying now and in that moment I realized that these people, these imperfect, odd, wary, uneven, unaccepting addicts were dear to me and beyond chums on the stool, beyond kin faces, they were something like friends and confidante souls I adored and valued more now than my own family because they were holding me down and operating on my Nazi-busted face like we were in fact bound by something like love or something even stronger I wanted to believe and did until I saw the Rooster look pale and nervous maybe cuz Pa was starting to sweat ugly, like something was wrong type sweat, cuz he was biting his lip and shaking and I could feel the tug and pull of the suture and the old man’s fingers pushing and pinching and someone else started cursing and this was not good and the pain kicked up fierce and now Jiles was yelling at Pa and it started to hurt baaaaad and I could see the blood soaking the towels and Jewels was playing it cool with the aunt and the crow but Pa was yelling back at Jiles like it was all gonna be okay but it wasn’t okay and I ripped my hand away from the Rooster and I needed to know what the hell was happening until the pain wrecked me right and I started breathing hard and harder and harder and I got mighty scared until the world went rushing white red and all quiet black.

 

 

Sunday, August 30th, 1:25 p.m.

 

Sunshine filled my world.

The day was bright and piercing when I woke up in my bedroom.

I needed water.

My face burned.

My chest hurt.

Everything hurt.

Real hurt. This was next-level, WWII hurt.

I got to my feet, not knowing how the hell I got to my bed in the first place but could reasonably square that someone, probably Jewels, helped me home after the horror of the box surgery.

I sucked back water straight from the tap, careful not to touch my swollen face to the faucet and sink.

And then, I looked into the mirror.

It was better than I suspected. My right eye was bloodshot, black and yellow, but there was a big ass bandage covering the left side of my face. Wow. They really went to town on that bandage. I debated pulling it off to see how long the scar was gonna be but had the good sense to know the damage was done. Let it go. Let it heal, you moron.

Superglue.

Did he really ask for Superglue?

I washed. I washed around, anyway.

It still hurt to breathe. But I was gonna be okay.

Josie was still dead. But I was gonna be okay.

I walked down the stairs.

Nick saw me coming. He was confused like why’s Sam wearing a pillow on his face?

Then he saw.

Saw the shape I was in. He didn’t make a snide comment. For Nick, this was superior behavior. The man was genuinely concerned. Like seeing my broken face was beyond his realm of trash-talking.

I laid it out. From the beginning. The Josie hook. The Magnet Max connection. The stolen file. Pa. The stitches.

He stared. Gobsmacked. I kept waiting for Nick to make a jab at my stupidity. But he didn’t. He just shook his head like he was sad. Concerned even.

My actions had silenced the unsilenceable fuckin’ Nick.

I shoulda been happy.

I’d dreamed of this moment.

But it was all just a glaring reflection of how bad things had turned out. The Josie rabbit hole. This chase, this terrible mistake, no, all these terrible mistakes I’d made in my life. Sitting there, the sun piercing through, making it bright and clear how bad it’d all got. How hard it was to breathe.

Just to breathe.

I had to make some changes in my life. I couldn’t keep doing this. I was broken and broke and all of this was going to kill me.

Nick offered to make me a coffee. I was happy about that.

 

 

Monday, August 31st, 12:03 p.m.

 

I picked up my car outside the Lovely but didn’t go in.

I needed a break.

So I drove to my mechanic on Hyperion. He looked worried. He fixed the car and gave me a wrecked-face discount. I shoulda found it funny. But I was too gracious and rattled. The repairs cost me my $466, and I filed the accident report with my supervisor, hoping she’d allow to me work the roads again.

Her name was Greta. She had concerns about my wellbeing. Really though, about their clients’ wellbeing. Could I even see okay to drive?

Yes, I assured her and left out the part about how it hurt to breathe.

She was rightfully dubious, so I sold her a sob story that I’d been ruthlessly beat up at a party, aka the truth, and was desperate to get behind the wheel to pay for my medical bills.

She bought it.

 

Thursday, September 3rd, 10:18 p.m.

 

 

I drove four days straight.

I didn’t drink.

I hadn’t been back to the bar since.

No one asked or called. That was fine with me.

Changes.

I thought about her denim lying lifeless in the box. The smell of it.

Nothing but trouble, Sam. That was the voice rattling around my stupid head. Nothing but trouble come outta there. If I was gonna make some changes, I needed to stay away from the goddamned Lovely.

But first, I owed them a thank you.

 

 

Friday, September 4th, 12:58 p.m.

 

They cheered.

They howled in victory.

Like a soldier back from war. Clapping at my ragged face.

No one’s ever clapped for me like that.

I tried not to cry but couldn’t stop it.

They howled harder.

Jiles cranked some Otis Redding and Jewels hugged me like some kinda proud sister might. Relieved.

Those tears kept rollin’ hard. Thankfully half my face was still covered in bandages.

And Slice grinned fierce.

“You look great, kid.”

Except there was Pa. He was in the corner, sipping soft and timid. I walked up and said thanks.

But the old timer just shrugged, like he didn’t to wanna talk about it. I respected his wishes and ordered a Sprite from Jiles who didn’t seem at all surprised. Word came down that he was the one who drove me home that night and got me to my bed.

“Did you brush my teeth, too?”

“Hell, no. Helped myself to some pretzels on the way out the door though cuz I was so damn hungry.”

I plied him for more details. “As far as I can remember, it got kinda rough before I passed out. What happened?”

He glanced at Pa down at the far end of the bar, still awfully quiet, and leaned in.

“Pa got kinda rattled. Not sure what happened but you started bleedin’ bad and something in him just snapped. Like he had some sort of PTSD. Got all wide-eyed and totally locked up. Eventually we had to pull him back cuz there was just so much blood and his hands were shaking. We were gonna call an ambulance but Lily was ahead of the game. After she saw you come in, she called her brother-in-law, some doctor who lives in Echo Park, so he zipped on over and stitched you up right.”

It all kinda made sense.

I looked over at Pa, suckin’ back that gin, alone, as Jiles continued, “The sonofabitch was right about that superglue, though. Doc stitched you up and lathered that stuff on. Tightened you up good. You believe that? Superglue.”

I walked back over to Pa. I wasn’t mad. I knew it was my own stupid fault for putting him in the crosshairs. He did the best he could. He tried. He cared. He wanted to help me so bad. And I loved the old bastard for it. So I just told him that.

“I love ya, Pa.”

I put a hand on his shoulder. He didn’t turn around or get all soft, instead he tapped my hand with his soft smooth palm and kept to his gin with a slight sad smile.

I went back to my stool and waxed Dodgers with Slice. The wildcard race was brewing and he bubbled up stats. Eager to share. But before long, he was on me about what was really on his mind.

“So what are you gonna do now, Sammy? What about the case? What about Josie?”

“I’m done. Who was I kidding? All I was doing was stirring up shit. With Max and those pricks. With Glenn. Lying to Susan Glasser. Pissing off Pinner. Lyin’ to Allison…Nothin’ but trouble, Slice.”

The news put Slice down like I’d robbed him of some kinda hope. But I could tell he understood. I finished my Sprite and told him I was in the red and needed to make some cake. The old-timer looked like an abandoned dog, and I felt bad in a way, but Slice wasn’t my problem right now.

I walked over to Lily and said thank you.

She just straight-faced me and said, “You’re welcome…Be smart, Sam. I know you are.”

That was it. The woman practically saved my life. But she just went back to reading a brief.

I gave a salute to Jiles and walked away without the denim. Then I drove to get a burrito and some water.

I was gonna be on the road all day and night.

 

 

Friday, September 4th, 2:03 p.m.

 

I peeled the bandages off my face. The cut was long and ran from above the edge of my left eye, down the side of my face towards the bottom of my ear.

I always thought it would be cool to have a scar on my face.

Like a warning about how dangerous I could be.

This just reminded me what a failure I was.

A weasel thief.

A spineless sleuth.

A luckless avenger.

An alcoholic.

I wasn’t drunk when they hit me, but I was drunk more than I shoulda been. I wouldn’t be cut if I’d beat the urge to booze at the Lovely, day in and day out. Never would have met Josie, I figured, anyway.

I snapped a shot of my new charming scar as some kinda reminder to be a better man.

I swiped some earlier pictures and stared at an odd shot of an Excel spreadsheet. At first I thought someone else musta pinched my phone and snapped something but then I looked closer and saw the contents. It was a list of companies and financial contributions to Patriot Strong.

Then I remembered.

Before I stole the file, I’d taken some pictures in the office and they were still on my phone. Those Nazi pricks never figured to check my pictures.

I felt a spike of adrenaline.

And then I pushed that stupid spike down, down, down.

Nothin’ but trouble.

 

 

Friday, September 4th, 5:22 p.m.

 

I got back on the road.

It was the first time I’d driven someone without my bandages on. I picked up two teenagers. Guys. They were about sixteen. Tom and his buddy, Alec. Sounded like they were going to their friend’s house party. I remembered being a teenager. Going to house parties. Getting into delicious trouble. Acting like those house parties were just a steppin’ stone to a greater, more rewarding life. When really, those house parties were the treasure.

That was a long time ago.

I don’t think they noticed my chewed-up face.

 

 

Saturday, September 5th, 10:19 p.m.

 

The next night, I saw Josie on a sidewalk boulevard. I knew she was dead, but I picked her up, anyway, and asked where she wanted to go. She said she needed to go to the ocean. This made absolute sense so I pulled into traffic. I drove silently, staring at her in the rearview mirror because she was alive and beautiful wearing her denim shirt and she smiled at me too and now I wasn’t driving because I was sitting next to her in the back seat, just inches away, and I reached out to touch her hand and she took my hand in hers and smiled and she whispered gently, almost softly into my ear—

“Thank you, Sam.”

 

 

I jerked awake.

I was behind the wheel.

I’d been driving for over twenty-seven hours but wide-awake now thanks to that image of Josie. Staring at me.

Thank you, Sam.

I sat behind the wheel. Stone-faced. I knew it was just a stupid dream.

Nothin’ more.

Nothin’ but trouble.

I could see her so close to me. I held her hand. It meant something.

It was just a stupid dream.

Nothin’ more.

Nothin’ but trouble.

I yelled hard. I didn’t know why or at what. But it felt right.

Be smart, Sam. I know you are.

“I know, Lily.” I said it out loud.

I yelled again. Harder. Better.

Thank you, Sam.

That face.

I needed to sleep. I needed to rest proper.

No, I needed to make more money.

I turned on my app and before long picked up three new rides. The last one was a girl named Tanya. She was black, with extremely dark skin and a swirl pattern shaved into her hairline. She was attractive. She clocked my gash. I think she was frightened. I couldn’t blame her. We both kept quiet, a silent tension in the air. But I liked having her in the back of my car.

She was so beautiful.

That’s how it works, I guess.

Eventually, I pulled over and she looked concerned, wondered what was happening. I started to cry again.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You just reminded me of someone. I can still drive you, I just need a moment to—”

She opened the door and got out of the car. Fast. Walked away.

Then I got out, too.

Felt the night on my face.

I opened the back door and sat on the back seat. Across from where Josie sat in my stupid dream.

Her face was here.

I could see her. Hear her say thank you. Over and over.

I guess I felt haunted.

I guess that’s how it works.

Then I felt stung. Stung ugly with determination.

 

 

Saturday, September 5th, 10:58 p.m.

 

I rolled back in to The Damned Lovely.

Like a moth to a flame. And just look how that turned out, Samuel.

There were no claps. No hugs. There were some twists on the stools and a coupla of heya look, Sammy’s back.

Only Slice looked at all happy to see me.

But I didn’t saddle up. I didn’t order a drink. I went straight to the Rooster and handed him a piece of paper.

“What’s this?”

“It’s a list of companies.”

“What kind of list?”

“That’s not really important. I just need to know everything about these companies. Who owns them. How much money they have. And what they do with it. Anything I can’t get on Google. I’ll pay you a hundred bucks a company. And if you feel that’s not enough, like some companies you gotta cast a wider net, come talk to me and I’ll up the ante.”

“I don’t get it.”

Jiles said I needed to follow the money. I didn’t have time to spell it out but this was my only lead from the file. And considering I got my ass handed to me, figured it was worth at least using the last piece of intel I had left.

“I’m in need of information. You’re the master at finding it online. Can you help me?”

The Rooster shrugged indifferently. “Two hundred a company.”

Where the hell was this jab coming from? I guess it was fair but came outta left field.

“How about one fifty?” I countered.

The Rooster wavered.

“I’m still paying off my face those guys busted up. And my car. Please?”

He looked at me, nonplussed. “Jewels is a bitch.”

Ah. Coming into focus now. “Didn’t pan out, huh?”

“She said she’s got a boyfriend.” He leaned in, all dramatic, all squinty-eyed. “She doesn’t have a boyfriend. I checked. She’s a liar.”

“I’m sorry, man. That sucks. I tried.”

“Okay. One fifty.”

“Thanks.”

Nearby Slice was watching like a lab on a leash. “What’s going on, Sammy? Where you been?”

“Working. Trying to buy back my life. Make some money.”

“Have a drink.”

I ordered a Sprite.

Slice grunted and pressed if I’d heard from my agent.

“Did she call ya back yet? On the article?”

With all the madness last week, I’d kinda forgotten about the article. Forgotten insofar as chosen not to trust my stupid agent would ever actually do anything with it.

“No, Slice. And to be honest I don’t ever expect her to. I wrote that thing on a whim. For my portfolio. The chances of it actually getting published or seen or read by anyone are pretty slim.”

It was kind of a lie, but kind of the truth.

Again with that crushed dog look.

Maybe I underestimated how important this was to him. That maybe this article was his last bastion of hope. That the world might finally understand or celebrate or love him.

“I’m just saying. I don’t want you to get your hopes up. It might happen but if it doesn’t that’s gotta be okay, too. All right?”

He filled his chest with air like it was no big thing.

“Just askin’ is all.”

We sat all quiet and maybe I felt bad for stringing him along or felt annoyed that he kept on me after all the crap I’d been through.

Tom T. Hall cooed on the radio singing about Memphis.

I looked around. Saw the usual faces. Jewels. Jiles. Lily. The Rooster.

I looked around and it was the first time I ever felt cold and uninterested in the world around me. Those faces. The sounds. The smell. The characters comin’ in the front door. I was indifferent. Numb. Maybe my time at The Damned Lovely had run its course. Maybe it was time to change course.

I started thinking about my options, where the hell I might set up shop. I’d rather burn to death before writing at a Starbucks. Home would have to do until I could find another box somewhere. Then I remembered a guy named Todd I’d met at Covelle years back. His folks owned a bunch of buildings in the neighborhood. Old money. Maybe he’d remember me. Let me rent out a space on the cheap. I considered looking up his number in my phone when the Rooster walked my way.

He looked different. Probably because his face wasn’t lit up by his computer screen, but it looked like he was almost smiling underneath his blank stare.

He flashed a phone’s screen in my face.

“You see this?”

It was a Twitter blast. KTLA breaking news:

All grabbed up! Police arrest alleged serial killer, the Glendale Grabber.

Below the copy was a picture of Pinner marching a man I’d never seen, never thought about, never considered, into some government building.

It was posted fifty-seven minutes ago.

“What is it, Sammy?” Slice obviously saw the look on my face but the shock stopped me from speaking.

The Rooster chimed in. “They got that serial killer.”

Slice perked up. “The Glendale Grabber?”

Jiles walked over now, too. The Rooster turned the phone and showed the guys.

“Sonofabitch. They got him!” Jiles said. “Look, there’s Pinner. Wow. They finally got him. That’s great!”

I shoulda been happy.

But it didn’t make sense.

I couldn’t believe it.

Why wasn’t I happy? They finally got the guy. Without me. It wasn’t Max. It wasn’t Glenn. It was a just some guy with a beard I’d never seen before.

I shoulda been happy.

Why wasn’t I happy?

I needed to know more.

The Rooster let me use his computer. We dragged the net. Guy’s name was Louis Ullverson. An ex-con outta Lompoc who was on parole, working as a janitor at a medical facility off Central Street. He’d done time for assault and robbery. But the breaking details were scant. No mention on how they connected him to the Glendale murders.

I needed to talk to Pinner. God bless Jiles who was already on the phone. When he finally got through, word came in that Ullverson was being arraigned on Tuesday at four p.m. downtown at the Temple courthouse.

I wanted a drink to celebrate.

I resisted and walked outside into the night.

 

 

Tuesday, September 8th, 3:33 p.m.

 

Slice shuffled uncomfortably down the hallways, leading me through the barren, government arteries filled with suits on both sides of the law.

Orange jumpsuits.

Lawyer pinstripes.

Power pantsuits.

Pinner told us to be on the second-floor lobby around the elevators and he’d come find us.

And so we waited.

Slice kept his head low, like he was wary of anyone seeing him back on his old stompin’ grounds. In these here halls o’ justice. He looked shaky. But no one made him. No one cared who this man was.

Pinner squeezed out of an elevator and greeted us with his signature smarmy grin.

“Toldja we’d pin him, Sam.”

I shoulda said congrats and thank you and good job. But I wanted information.

“How did you find him?”

“Police work. Like I told ya we would. DNA found on the vics’ clothes and in the cars matched Ullverson. His deck was in the system. Took some time but once they had the full work up from the rape kits, it was an easy pin.”

“Then why’d it take so long? I mean, if you had Josie’s DNA and the guy’s DNA on file—”

“Because it wasn’t just Josie,” the cop barked. “Three vics. Three cases. You think closing a charge on this happens overnight?”

“No, of course not.”

“Do you know how many people we had on this?” he said, growing louder now. “How many hours of lab work we’re runnin’ down? How many grunts scouring street cams?”

Pinner slugged Slice a look, like who the hell is this chump to question him. Here. Now.

“I can’t even imagine. Lotta work.” I backpedaled, trying to buy it all back. “So, but in the end, I’m just curious what DNA did you get off Josie? Cuz I remember at the autopsy there was no semen. In the rape kit, right?”

“I can’t get into all this now, I have to be in court.”

“Congrats, Pinner,” Slice chimed in, trying to smooth it all over. “That’s one helluva good grab. Good day.”

“Yeah, great job,” I padded.

Pinner eyeballed me. Almost angry. “Why you look so sad?”

“I’m happy. Happy you got him. I’m happy he’s off the street.”

Pinner shrugged like he’d heard that clichéd drivel before. But he was right. I didn’t feel happy. I felt overwhelmed. Or something like that.

“Well, he’s gonna be arraigned any minute now. Over in Rhodes’s courtroom. It’s down here on the right.”

He swiveled his girth and lumbered towards the courtroom without waiting for us.

“I’ll come by the Lovely and give you the download. I just don’t have time right now.”

As repulsive as that man was on so many levels, he was good at catchin’ bad guys. And for my money that was the penthouse.

Slice and I walked into the courtroom presided over by Cecily Rhodes. She had a tight, tough, old face that had obviously seen a lot of tragedy. We slunk into the back. There were no reporters. Just a couple of cops and clerks.

I nudged Slice wondering if this was a private arraignment and he figured it couldn’t be if we were there.

“Where the hell is everyone?”

Slice was straight-faced. “It’s Glendale, Sammy.”

Yeah. This wasn’t a splashy Brentwood O.J. celebrity scandal. This was a dirty Glendale rapist. And nobody cares about Glendale. Even me, and I lived there.

Slice was taking in the scene. It was odd seeing him so keyed up. Getting a taste of the old days. The juice.

Before long someone I finally recognized walked in. It was David Pendleton. Josie’s brother. He looked worn out. Saw me and tried to square it but I kept my eyes low.

A bailiff marched Louis Ullverson into the courtroom. He had a lawyer with him. A young guy who couldn’t have been more than thirty we pegged as the public defender but he had a nice suit. Rhodes blared the charges.

Murder in the first degree. Three counts.

I stared at Ullverson. The man looked ragged and unhinged and exactly what you’d expect a serial rapist to look like. Unattractive enough. Unpowerful. Unphysical. Sick on the inside, plain on the outside.

Scary sick you can’t detect.

There was a lotta courtroom banter but I just stared at this man. He was wearing a brown jumpsuit and it bothered me. I wanted orange. I wanted impact and resonance.

I thought about Josie’s skin on the slab.

I thought about this due process.

I thought it was bullshit. I wanted this man to burn. I wanted the old days where we hang ’em up and snap that neck. Let those eyes bulge out. Let the world see what happens when you violate a woman.

They said some more stuff and walked him away.

Due process.

Slice stared at me. “Happy now?”

I think he smiled a little. Like he knew how insignificant the process felt compared to the pain.

“Sure, Slice.”

As we walked out, I tried not to look at David, though I could feel him staring at me. Still squaring it all friend or foe.

I broke away from Slice and marched up to David, tired of defending myself inside.

“I just miss her. I’m sorry you lost your sister.”

I walked away and hoped to never see him again.

 

 

Tuesday, September 8th, 5:16 p.m.

 

I drove Slice back to the Lovely.

I locked myself in the box.

I tried to write. About the arraignment. About Ullverson.

But Josie’s blue face on the slab kept creepin’ in. The smell of her shirt. I couldn’t shake it.

I hit the road.

I needed to numb myself with strangers’ faces and mindless banter.

With stops and starts and flashing traffic lights.

 

 

Thursday, September 10th, 2:11 p.m.

 

I slept.

I avoided Nick.

I hit the box.

I let my face heal.

I stayed away from booze. I drank Sprite and cursed.

I thought about burning Josie’s shirt.

I wrote random short stories.

I distanced myself from the slugs at the bar and missed Jiles.

Until someone knocked on the box door.

So I opened it and saw a smile. It belonged to Allison and she handed me a Sprite.

“Bartender said this is your drink of choice now.” She stepped in, and I was worried the room smelt like the worst of me. “Nice office.”

“I call it the box.”

“Kinda stinks…Not a lot of fresh air in here. Not a lotta light.” She looped around in a figure eight.

“So, thanks for the orchid.”

I shrugged and shoulda said you’re welcome but was still processing what the hell she was doing here. And how good it was to see her.

That smile.

“It’s good to see you. Didn’t think I ever would after the last time.”

“You started it!” she barked with a grin.

She glanced at my computer and I got tight.

“What are you writing?”

“Nothing important.”

“You obviously heard. About this guy they got.”

“Yeah.”

We just looked at each other and it felt good until she saw the fading bruises and scar around my eye.

“What happened to your face?”

“I got beat up.”

“Who beat you up?”

“Nazis.”

She didn’t believe me, like it was some joke. “You beat those Nazis back?”

I shook my head and instantly realized how much I truly liked this woman. “You wanna get outta here? Grab some food?”

“I can’t. I just came by to say hi. But I was thinking of you with all the news about Josie. And…that orchid.”

“You like orchids?”

“I like the one you gave me. I also like to think how stupid you were to ask me here and ask me all those questions when you didn’t even know Josie. Or me. I guess you really cared about her.”

She made for the door.

“I’ve been listening to Lou Reed. You were right. Something about his voice…it’s infectious. Been dancing around my apartment all alone with Lou keeping me company.”

She danced a little jig and flicked up her skirt, exposing a piece of her thigh.

“Gimme a call next week. Don’t text. Just call me.”

And then she was gone.

It was a bona fide skirt-jig hit and run.

I mean. Just the smell of her changed everything.

She smelled like hope.

 

 

Thursday, September 10th, 2:27 p.m.

 

I walked outta the box and Team Lovely looked my way like they wondered what kind of mischief with Allison went down behind that door. I dashed their dirty expectations and told them it was all clean and friendly.

Pa laughed. “It was awful faaaast.”

The Greek chorus chimed in at my expense when my phone rang. I figured it was another solar energy company or insurance racket and answered without saying anything—waiting for the din of the call center and the hello Mr. Samuel before hanging up.

But instead a women’s voice told me to hold for Daphne.

I got tight.

My agent Daphne clicked on. “Sam?”

“Daphne?”

“We sold the article. You’re gonna make some money. Pretty sure we’re all gonna make some money if you don’t mess this up cuz I slipped the article to an exec at Stake.”

“Stake?”

“Yeah, the magazine. But they’re expanding. They have a partnership with the Alden group—this big French firm with European money who are helping them launch a content division. They’re looking to create a whole brand—starting their own streaming platform and have been desperate for sort of, macho, male-driven content. Pretty much the opposite of what everyone else wants. Anyway, they purchased the rights to the article outright and are gonna publish it.”

“Wow. Wait, they just bought it?”

“It gets better. The exec slipped the article to David G. Frazier. Please tell me you know him?”

“Kinda…” I lied.

“He’s a writer. Producer. Done a ton of stuff. Studio guy—worked on the Thrasher franchise. And he’s got three shows streaming right now. Look him up. Anyway, he’s got a first look with Stake. He LOVED the article. Loved the voice. Wants to meet you right away and talk about developing it into something bigger.”

“Bigger what?”

“They wouldn’t say. That’s what he wants to talk about, I guess. And by all accounts he’s a super nice guy. Canadian, I think. He suggested the bar, The Damned Lovely, you know, the one in your article. His office will reach out with times. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“I got you six grand for the article up front. That’s five times what most publications would pay for something like this. If Frazier wants to develop it, you’ll retain the rights so presuming you guys can work together, we’ll all make some real money. But that’s down the line. Anyway. That sound good? What are you writing next?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Send me some ideas…”

“You always say that and then you hate my ideas. Then I end up hating them or hating you.”

“That usually means the ideas are inherently problematic. Look, you can write, Sam. You’ve proven that. It’s time we started to work together from the beginning and really develop your voice. Just tell me what you’re thinking. Maybe we can find some development money for you. Get you out on some generals.”

“Okay. Thanks, Daph—”

“You’re welco—”

The line went dead before she finished.

Onto the next kill.

I stared at the phone. This portal of highs and lows that just detonated my life with information. Yes, yes, we all create our own destinies but it just rings and boom! the sum of all my self-loathing, of fear and nights of panic of why do I even bother typing these words anyway…all of it changed in a burst of words through this little glowing beacon.

We like it.

We want to buy it.

And for that, I could buy better food and shelter and booze and feel better about myself.

It was only six grand. But it was six grand. And it was the best damn six grand I would ever earn.

And then those stupid tears hit. The stinging kind. The kind that reminded me what a fuck up I was NOT, after all. After wrestling those failures, pinning them down against the floor of my conscience for another burst of something, some inspiration, some fuel in the tank. Those stinging tears dripped out and I didn’t care if Jiles and Jewels and Pa and Lily and the Rooster saw. They were earned. They were stinging victory tears, my friends, so bottoms up.

They all wanted to know what was going on.

I wiped my face.

I kept quiet and coy.

Wait till I tell Slice.

“Nothing.”

I kept it close for now.

For me. I bought them a round instead. They were thrilled. They smiled and said something like Sammy’s back.

So I asked Jiles to pour me some bourbon.

 

 

Thursday, September 17th, 8:27 p.m.

 

I called Allison.

I bought good wine and we hit Abbott Kinney’s finest for dinner.

We walked the streets of Venice. I marveled at the beautiful faces and the smell of the air.

We talked and smiled, all in sync. I held back about Max. About the jerks who beat me up.

She never asked about Josie.

I never asked about Josie.

I felt like holding her hand but was afraid to kill the buzz and have her shake loose.

I asked her if orchids reminded her of a woman’s labia and by extension were not great gifts.

She laughed magic.

I drove her home and walked her to her front door like it was the fifties.

She invited me in and we danced to Lou Reed in her apartment.

I could smell her neck.

I swelled with willpower and chose to leave before messing it up. I thought about her neck and how sweet she smelled driving home.

The traffic sucked coming east. Even at midnight.

God, how I loved this messed up town.

 

 

Friday, September 18th, 10:11 a.m.

 

I considered telling Nick I was gonna move out. No, I dreamed of telling Nick I was gonna move out. Literally think I had a dream and woke up bright.

Was six grand enough? Always said that if I was gonna move west, I had to make it worth my while. Like it was an achievement, like it meant something bigger creeping closer to the beach.

Like my life had improved.

I checked rent in Silverlake. I found a little guesthouse overlooking the reservoir for twenty-one hundred.

I got wise.

I held back.

Six grand was a drop in the bucket.

But for me it was a grand slam. My own golden ticket assuring me this chase, this painful pursuit, was worth something.

My meeting with Frazier was coming up. My future was wiiiiiide open.

 

 

Friday, September 18th, 5:23 p.m.

 

I figured it was time.

I gave Slice the article, careful not to watch his face as he read it sitting at the bar next to me.

When he was done, he threw it back in my face. Like actually threw those papers at me until they scattered around and fell to the sticky wet floor.

“I bare my fuckin’ soul and this is what you do to me? Cut into me like this?”

I sucked back oxygen. Suspected he’d be ruffled but didn’t anticipate the disappointment behind his eyes.

“It’s all true, isn’t it?”

The man hated it. Said I’d left out all the good parts. The badass cop stings. The Vice busts. Those hero moments. Instead it was mostly all about how sad his life had become swilling booze in Glendale most afternoons.

“This is what you think of me, Sam?”

I didn’t have a safe answer for that.

“You think I want people to read this?” Then, he added softly, “My son?”

Slice looked cut up. Like I’d never really seen. He stood and walked outta the bar.

I shouldn’t have been surprised.

But it wasn’t a puff piece.

It was a character piece. Meant to cut to the truth. I never exposed his great sin outright, but Slice was a fallen soul. It was his fault. I didn’t shoot a guy, I just wrote around it. And he knew all along that was gonna come out. Why else would he have told me? Why would he have told me if he didn’t want it coming out?

Screw him. I mean, I love the man. But I got nothin’ else. The article was about to get published and it was my ticket to a better life. So yeah, that’s how I justified it when I asked Jiles to pour me a double.

I wanted him to see my side of things but the bartender just grunted.

“I don’t know. The man’s been through it.”

“Yeah and that comes out in the article. I think what he is, what he did is tough but noble and ugly and a dark shadow—”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s still a cut.”

“A cut?”

“There’s a code. With cops. A bond. An unspoken oath. And what you’re doing? Cuts in. We call it a cut.”

Jiles was rampin’ up. I could see the engines charging. Like he often did when talking cops.

“Meaning?”

“It means we don’t rat out our own. One of us fucks up, we own it. To each other. Not to a judge. Not to our wives. Our kids. To each other. Because we understand, only we understand what it’s really like to go out there every night and put our body up for sale. Now I know you’ve heard that talk before but think about it. Think about it, Sam. Every night, a part of us believes: this might be it. This might be the night some crazy on meth catches me off guard cuz for him, I’m a demon. That’s what we do. It’s not a stupid TV show or a movie. It’s what we actually do on Tuesdays and on Wednesdays, on every day. So when we mess up. And we do mess up, we got two choices. You can own it. You come right out and say, yeah. I messed up. I hit the guy. I pinched the money. The gun went off. I shoulda known better. And for that? You burn. Your pension burns. Your family burns. Or. You bury it. You hold the line and tell ’em nah, fuck you, I did my job. You keep quiet and tell yourself you were the good guy. There were casualties but for the greater good you did what you had to do.

“Some skate by. Some don’t and get called into court. But either way, we know. Cops know. On the inside. Cops know when other cops mess up. And at the end of the day, we decide when it’s too much. When the line has been crossed. When there was no greater good there was only you and your own messed up demons burning inside that you couldn’t keep in so someone else had to hurt. We decide.

“What Slice did? In the court of cop opinion was in the greater good. We let it slide. We knew the facts. The monster he took down. The ugliness of it all and it was ugly and he made a terrible choice that day but he didn’t need to burn for it. He needed to go quiet. He wasn’t coming back after that. But the man didn’t need to go to jail. He wasn’t a threat to society. He was damaged. So we kicked him to the curb. Let him sit with what he did. On the inside. He’s been broke ever since. It was the right thing to do.”

“You decide?”

“We decide.”

“What happens when guys like Slice push back?” I asked. “When they don’t go quiet?”

“Then we step in. You’ll never read about it. Or hear about it. But we right the wrong. On our own terms. In the interest of the people. Because we already know the system’s broke. And most cops would rather take a bullet than face the bars.”

“You say so, Jiles.”

“That’s just the way it works. Always has. Which is why you’ve put Slice in a jam. You’re exposing him, the system and how it all really works.”

Jiles turned and saw a brunette with an empty wineglass waiting impatiently at the far end of the bar. He set off to help her but rapped his hand a couple times on the bar, like some judge banging a gavel on this disturbing session.

Jiles always spiked the drama when it came to cop talk. I just couldn’t buy it. I’m sure it went down sometimes, but I’d read enough dirty cop headlines to know they didn’t always decide. Right?

I swilled the bourbon and planted my flag. Maybe I’d betrayed my friend’s trust but Slice was broken and it was his own fault. Maybe he wanted those sins to come out. Why else would he have told me? Hanging off my elbow asking when the article was coming out. Maybe he needed to get locked up.

That’s what I told myself when the Rooster approached and cooed close to my ear.

“You owe me twelve hundred dollars.”

He placed a black USB thumb drive on the bar and walked away. Twelve hundred bucks? I didn’t owe him—

Then it hit me. I never told the Rooster to stop. That I didn’t need the intel on the Patriot Strong financial donors now that they’d snatched up the Grabber. I clenched my hands against the bar till they got hot and white. Twelve hundred dollars for an Excel spreadsheet I didn’t even need. I stared at the little hard drive, laughing at the terrible pun. The amount of hard driving I would have to do to pay it off.

Rooster would hack and destroy my life faster than Jewels kicked him to the curb if I didn’t pay him back. I sucked it up and told him I’d step out the payments in three chunks over a few weeks’ time. He shrugged which I presumed meant that was cool.

I stared at the drive.

Did I really want to open up this wound again? They caught the guy. I didn’t need this shrapnel. I had traction—a girl like Allison, a bon-a-fide paycheck and the promise of a better horizon.

I stared at the drive.

I thought about Josie.

I thought about her skin on the slab.

The denim I couldn’t bring myself to burn.

I wished I was stronger.

I had to scratch.

 

 

Friday, September 18th, 6:01 p.m.

 

I hit the box and plugged the drive into Benny. Figured if I paid for the information, may as well see what he dug up. Maybe I could write an article exposing the scum who funded an organization like Patriot Strong. Earn a few bucks from some blowhard liberal publications.

The Rooster had dug into eight different private companies with mixed results.

 

Capital 7 Partners LLC.

Unlimited Reach LLC.

Optimize RD.

JD Assets LLC.

Blue Whale Inc.

Global Road Inc.

Excel 96 Inc.

 

Capital 7, Unlimited Reach, and Optimize were all owned by big-wig real estate cats out of Houston. A conglomerate of land-owning, aged-out, rich, right-wing white guys with dubious moral standards. The numbers were staggering. The wealth. So many commas. They’d each lobbed close to thirty grand a month at Patriot Strong. The flagship funding. JD Assets belonged to an ex-Brit out of Silicon Valley named James Devon Ingram who, at not even thirty years old, made a killing selling encrypted software data storage programs to governments all over the world. He was pouring in a steady ten K every month. Blue Whale was the book name of a company owned by a ninety-year-old fast-food chain heiress. She was tossing in over six K a month. Global Road was a nondescript LLC shell company out of Fresno with a single principal by the name of M. N. Sandoval. They’d given steady chunks of five K a month but there was very little clarity on who or what they represented. Similarly Excel 96 was shoving over erratic cash anywhere from a couple hundred to twenty-two K. The principal of the company was Rachel McSorley. The Rooster couldn’t find much on these folks outside of the deposits. Or never bothered.

I printed out the list and pinned it on my corkboard of ideas. For a rainy day in Glendale. Maybe I’d dig it up after my meeting with Frazier. Circle back on these sharks and write up a hasty exposé, revealing their true colors to the world. Spin my twelve hundred outta the red and add to my escape fund.

 

 

Friday, September 25th 3:20 p.m.

 

The day finally came.

I shaved and could see my face healing nicely. Nicely enough with a huge scar down the side of my eye.

I hit the bar, ten minutes early.

Gained my bearings.

Rehearsed my compelling tale for the meet. Who I was and how I came to this moment in the world. The general meeting highlight reel.

David G. Frazier breezed in fourteen minutes late. Annoying. But I cut him some Westside slack.

I recognized him from the Google images shots. He was tanned and much taller than I expected with a full head of black hair and aviator sunglasses that sat on a tiny nose. He was about fifty, looked rich and comfortable in a button-down shirt and jeans but walked with an awkward gait. Almost cautious. Then again, it was my home field advantage.

I introduced myself and he lit right up. All smiley, healthy Brentwood white teeth beaming out. He seemed genuinely excited to meet me. Even more excited to see the bar and meet Slice, who wasn’t around.

He ordered a Diet Coke and offered to buy me a drink.

I ordered a Bulleit. No way I was putting on airs for this man. He called the meet. I may as well get a free drink outta this if nothing else. We rocked the usual opening banter. Traffic and heat. He was curious about the scar on my face. I spun a terrible lie about cutting it on a busted coat hanger in a dark closet.

As the chatter slowed down, Frazier looked around the bar and asked about the history of the joint. I waved Jiles over and Frazier started up about what a great writer I was.

I let it play.

It felt odd and glorious. That admiration.

Jiles shot me a look like a proud father and regaled Frazier with the bar’s history. The chain of command. The players. The space.

Frazier said the article rang true and did the place justice. “No pun intended,” he mused. Then he started up with his vision. “With what it could be.”

I was a little lost. Vision? “What what could be?”

“The article. I wanna turn it into a TV show. You’ve got all these burnouts—what a great cast. And the cop thing. It’s like Cheers meets Murder, She Wrote. But newer. Cooler. Every week the characters, the ex-cops, will solve a crime. With Slice blazing the trail. You know, the disgraced ex-cop with killer instincts that everyone underestimates. It could be a fun crime show. A dramedy. But with heart. Whaddya think?”

Dramedy? I covered the pain with a foggy look. Tryin’ to square the nonsense. “Did you say Murder, She Wrote?”

“That’s a dated reference. But you get the idea. Course we might have to change some stuff…maybe set it in Venice or Culver City. Get some women in. Make it more diverse. Make Jiles Asian or something. You know.” He looked around the dive bar. “Yeah. Brighten it up a little.”

“That show from the eighties? With Angela Lansbury? You wanna turn Slice into Angela Lansbury?”

Frazier cocked me a guarded look. Like that tanned skin wasn’t used to people pushing back on it.

“I think your article is a great jumping off point, has a great engine for a show and it’s a fun little nugget of IP to help launch some content. But, to be candid, it needs an overhaul for the medium. A TV facelift.”

“No, it doesn’t. This place is a gem. Just the way it is. If you’re gonna write a show about this joint then, write a show about this joint. Tell it like it is. Warts and all. Tell it because of the warts. Make it real.”

Frazier was nodding his head. “I agree, and it would have the spirit of this place…the spirit of Slice and his life as a cop. About a man who gets a second chance in life and helps the new young cops solve crimes from his stool. That could help us access a younger demographic. Anyway, it’s gonna be great. I can see it. Might have to make Slice a little younger though. And I’m not really sold on Glendale…There’s nothing sexy about Glendale. I see it more like Culver City.”

“Culver City?” I looked around the room. “This ain’t Culver City. This is fuckin’ Glendale. You wanna make a show about a bar in Culver City with Angela Lansbury what does that have to do with my article or this place?”

Frazier started brewing when Slice bust through with a slab of Porto’s chocolate cake. I introduced Frazier and the old coot lit right up, smearing a piece of cake off his upper lip.

Frazier peppered Slice with adoration and questions. How excited he was to finally meet him. He asked the ex-cop about his son. About the beat in Vice. Bustin’ streets in nineties’ LA. Even about his old man and listening to the fights on the porch. Slice rambled, eager for the ear, and Frazier lapped it up.

I watched from the sidelines. Am I supposed to be happy?

I bubbled up a laugh as they exchanged war stories and hated myself for it.

Frazier wouldn’t even look at me.

I ordered another drink and hit the box. Happy to be alone and away from his tan and perfect teeth. His Hollywood schlock and pandering.

Culver City.

 

 

Friday, September 25th 4:24 p.m.

 

When I came back out Frazier was gone. Slice was yappin’ with Jiles, still riding high from the pomp.

I told him about Frazier’s idea. Culver City. Cheers meets Murder, She Wrote.

“You believe that?”

Slice didn’t get it. “Who cares? It’s a TV show. About us?! I think that’s pretty great.”

Jiles shrugged. God bless that man. He didn’t seem to care either way.

Slice kept trying to tell me how great it was gonna be. That I was gonna be rich and famous like that was gonna solve all my problems.

“What problems?” I asked, genuinely curious.

The man roared with laughter. Rich, unironic bellowing. Even Jiles chuckled.

I sipped my booze.

I burned furious.

As if on cue, my agent called.

Daphne was wicked sharp. Said I’d pissed off Frazier. Said I’d screwed the whole thing up.

I argued he was gonna turn the article into a stupid Angela Lansbury show about a fake version of a real cop in a fake Culver City bar that had nothing to do with the real me. Or Glendale.

She railed. “Glendale?!! Who cares? And this isn’t about you! It’s about Frazier! All you had to do was nod and say yes and what a great idea Mr. Frazier, and then we’re all friends and then we get the money and then we drill down on the creative and then we can fire Frazier cuz remember we’re all friends. Of course we were smart so we’d retain the rights to the article. But now, no. Now he’s either gonna dump the project, or more likely, he’ll just go over your head. He’ll get the magazine to sell him the rights and cut us out, altogether. You just buried us. THIS is why you’re not getting anywhere. THIS is the problem. YOU are the problem. Not the writing, YOU, Sam.”

She hung up.

I kept drinking.

Did I really just defend Glendale?

 

 

Friday, September 25th, 8:10 p.m.

 

Chalk up some more pain.

The Pluckin’ Strummers were hittin’ it hard that night.

Pinner waddled in.

I’d never been so happy to see his ugly face. After the Frazier debacle and the stinging call with my beloved representation, I needed to get my mind off the article and I hadn’t seen the cop since the arraignment. He’d been dodging me and I was still buzzing with questions.

The man was riding high and mighty. Pinner was a veritable toast of the blandest town for catching the Glendale Grabber. All he wanted was to drink and be merry with his fellow cop-o’s but I wanted details. There wasn’t much more in the press about the get on Ullverson. The Times said they “used a variety of methods to narrow down the search including a DNA match to the victims, surveillance cameras and eyewitness accounts that all contributed to the arrest.”

But I squeezed Pinner for the real juice.

He started up about the exhaustive search and hours of ugly police work he and his brethren had put into finding the monster. Days of digging into rape kits across the country pinged a match with a John Doe offender outta Detroit from 2013. Oddly the DNA wasn’t in the system but the officers recognized the MO. Death by asphyxiation in a stolen car. Turns out because of a processing backlog of over three hundred cases, they never even processed the DNA since the vic died, but Pinner persisted and made some calls. Pressed some crisp suit to push through the data. When they finally did, it matched Ullverson who had just recently been sprung from a four-year stint in Lompoc. Then, the real get was scouring security cams. Seventeen cameras and over three hundred hours of footage finally turned up Ullverson strolling past an ATM cam only blocks from the car at the first victim’s crime scene. From there it got easier, and they matched the DNA to the second girl.

“Amazing,” I geeked out, sopping up the details.

“We worked our asses off and it paid off.” Pinner beamed, taking in the audience. “And then we caught a break when a gas station clerk, our one eyewitness, Antonio Yuarez, pegged Ullverson for the third murder.”

“That’s fantastic,” I nodded but didn’t totally understand. “You mean as well as the DNA?”

“DNA came up empty on the third case. So thank god for Antonio.”

“The third case? You mean Josie?”

He nodded but I was still confused. “So…you don’t have any DNA connected to Josie’s murder? Or in the car?”

“No. But we got an eyewitness who saw the bastard three blocks from where we found the car that night.”

“Three blocks?”

Pinner was no fool, picking up my curiosity. “He was in the vicinity. And he killed two other women with the exact same MO. You think that’s a coincidence?”

“I think I’d wanna be sure.” I blurted it out.

Pinner put down his drink. Barked at Jiles to pour me a stiff bourbon and put it on his tab.

“I am sure. I’ve been doing this for over fifteen years. Trust me.”

Then he glared at me. “Drink your drink, and mind your place. We got the guy.”

The Strummers panged hard.

Pinner talked to Jiles and pretended to ignore me.

I felt the disconnect brewing deep in my gut.

This was all supposed to be over.

 

Monday, September 28th, 9:49 a.m.

 

For three days I tried to wash off the stain of Josie’s murder. They finally had the guy in cuffs and I should’ve been happy but my gut rumbled dark.

An eyewitness account. A convicted sex offender guilty of raping and killing two women spotted only blocks away from Josie’s crime scene. Was it enough? Of course, it was.

On paper.

Jiles always told me cops think in straight lines. Direct connections. Past cases. Similar MOs. Repeat offenders. Hard stats. But if Pinner had told me they had DNA and a cop saw him do it, I’d still wanna be sure. I had to be sure and his collar only scrambled it all up. Maybe he was right. Maybe I was overthinking it, looking for some victory in place of my own life’s failure, but I didn’t care.

I couldn’t shake it and went back to the well. Laid it all out from scratch. Everything I had on my whiteboard in the box:

Josie was at the bar.

Josie was raped and killed in a car.

Josie had scratches that came from Max. Check—most likely Max.

Josie said in her emails she was going to bring down a powerful organization. Presumably, Patriot Strong.

I didn’t know how.

What did I know?

They had dispositive evidence on the first two killings: Ullverson’s DNA.

But not with Josie. Josie was different. A different killer? Made to look like the Grabber? A targeted hit to take out Josie by Max?

The MO was the same.

What was different? Specific and unique to only the third murder.

The night.

The place.

The car.

The night. I couldn’t find any significance attached to the night of July 6th. Birthdays. Anniversaries. The stupid moon. I scoured online for close to an hour and nothing popped that connected in any way to Patriot Strong or Max.

The place. I looked up all things connected to the intersection of Maple and Central where they found her, but from the jump this didn’t track. Why would you kill someone somewhere that meant something? The smart play is to make the location random. Untraceable. Not outside your apartment. Or job. Or anything that can connect back. Results were thin.

The car. I went back and looked at my notes on that beige Camry. Cops said the car was stolen, just like the other two murders. Pinner had told me it belonged to Sally Harnell. She was seventy-two and lived in Eagle Rock but I’d been unable to find anything on her. Still, I went back in. Who the hell was she? I powered through a twelve-page deep Google search and came up empty on anything connecting dear Sally. So I hit up some images. Mustang Sally. Sally Field. Lay down Sally. Endless faces and cartoons and useless pics of cowboy boots and random celebrities.

I typed in: Sally Harnell Organization and went seven pages deep hoping to see if anything connected to Max but nothing popped. Just more of the same random images.

Until I saw the sweatshirt.

It was yellow. With cursive blue writing and a crest, worn by an elderly woman with grey hair, smiling next to a group of old folks on a playground. Those sharp blue letters blazing on Sally Harnell’s chest:

Backyard Dreams.

Something like electricity shot through my spine. I tried not to freak out but this was the wrong organization. I was supposed to connect Max and Patriot Strong, not the charity helping children at Backyard Dreams.

I punched in: Backyard Dreams Sally Harnell.

The same grey-haired, pleasant-looking woman’s face popped up. I clicked through the endless wormhole of information on all things Sally Harnell. There were Sally Harnells in Hartford, Winnipeg, London, Bangkok, and a slew of other towns but none of ’em seemed to be connected to Backyard Dreams. I burned hours trying to connect Sally to Backyard Dreams but nothing popped.

Then I remembered my dad’s fishing mantra he’d blast with a smile when we’d be skunked on the boat for hours, swapping out flies: Never change a winning game, son…always change a losing game!

I pulled a one-eighty.

I was gonna dig back into Backyard Dreams. Come at it the other way. Maybe Sally was connected to them.

Fourteen minutes later I found an online volunteer sign-up list. Sally Harnell’s name was listed to help set up tents and lay out food at a fundraising run. There were some pictures in the margin of helpful volunteers smiling wide. Among them one of Sally next to Susan Glasser, Glenn’s assistant. The happy-go-not-so-lucky exec assistance/ex-actress working at Backyard Dreams. The bird girl. The one who gobbled down my Proof bakery scones and left me to slave doing her grunt work moving into that North Hollywood office. Intrigued, I dug deeper and hit up Glasser’s Twitter feed. That’s where I saw them. Those three beautiful words from Susan to Sally in a public post only three months ago: Happy Bday Aunt Sally!

Susan Glasser and Sally Harnell were related.

My mind went rowdy, swirling with theory.

It was Susan.

Of course it was. The unsuspecting, lovable, disgruntled worker who killed her younger more beautiful counterpart to sleep with the boss. It suddenly all made perfect sense. Glenn admitted he was in love with Josie. Susan was probably in love with Glenn and knew as long as Josie was around, he’d never see her for who she really was! So she stole her aunt’s car from Eagle Rock and…and then…raped Josie? Strangled her to death so it would look like the Glendale Grabber?

It all fell apart. Made absolutely no sense. Susan didn’t rape Josie. How the hell did that fit in? But this was something. It had to be.

I needed counsel.

I needed the man behind the bar.

I needed another drink, bad.

 

 

Monday, September 28th, 11:42 p.m.

 

It was close to midnight and the joint was way quiet. Slice was slurring words with Lily next to some strange faces in the corner. I ambled up to the bar and found Jiles, eager to lay out my dynamite connection.

But the ex-cop just winced. He agreed the Harnell/Glasser car connect was peculiar and even nodded with cred at my digging, but for his money that was the end of the line.

“I just don’t buy it, Sammy. And neither do you—I can tell. You got no motive. The pieces don’t add up. And your gut’s sayin the same thing, isn’t it?”

The ground was an easy place to keep my eyes. Circling through theories.

“Maybe she had a partner. Someone who did it for her?”

“Pinner’s a pain in the ass but he’s a good cop. He wouldn’t have been drinking here, celebrating, if he felt they got the wrong guy. Maybe it’s time to walk away from all this.”

“Pour me a Bulleit please, Jiles.”

But he just stood there. Looked kinda sad, like a tired dog. Checked his shoulder.

“I love ya, kid. You know I do. But where’s this all getting you? Look at your face. You’ve been chewed up. Inside and out. Why don’t you give it a break? Go hide behind a computer and write something. Something to make yourself proud or smile or I don’t know. You’re obviously good at it. You’re just tripping yourself up with this Josie dirt. I get it, you’ve put a lot of yourself into it, but at the end of the day, where’s it really getting you?”

I appreciated Jiles’s little monologue, but all I wanted now was a stiff drink not some stupid Dad advice.

“Can I please have a bourbon?”

The man shrugged. Whipped up my amber delight and left me alone. I sat stung and solo but the silence and cold booze helped figure out my next play.

 

 

Tuesday, September 29th, 7:12 a.m.

 

The matching Land Rovers were parked in the driveway. Perfectly parked in front of Glenn’s perfect big house, his perfect-looking family all likely resting inside.

I parked across the street, staying low in my car, watching, waiting for him to emerge. Figured Glenn to be an early bird type-A guy. But it was his beautiful wife who burst out the front door wearing headphones and splashy orange workout gear. She stretched her quads and bounded down the block.

Inside the massive house, the little girl was drifting from room to room. Finally, Glenn emerged in his kitchen, staring at an iPad. I considered waiting until he emerged but didn’t want to corner him next to his daughter.

The house felt even bigger standing on the front porch. I rang the bell and Glenn looked out a window to see who the hell was on his front porch so early in the morning. I wondered if he’d even remember me. He opened the door with a tight face and his daughter hiding behind his legs.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m not here to bother you. And I’m sorry for showing up like this, but I’ve discovered something sensitive I felt you should know. It’s about Josie.”

His face softened and the little girl smiled from behind her dad’s leg like she was playing a game.

“They already got the guy.”

I wound up and laid it out. Practiced on the way over. What to drum up, what to omit. No way was I going to mention Patriot Strong or Max but reminded him that Josie said something was rotten about his charity. Then teed up the Susan Glasser connection. The aunt. The car, the crime scene. The ugly coincidence. How Glasser chose her aunt’s car cuz she was suffering from Alzheimer’s and probably wouldn’t connect any dots.

His daughter wandered off, confused and bored. Glenn took in the tall tale and spewed it back.

“You think Susan Glasser killed Josie? The woman who has worked tirelessly with me for over seven years? For hardly any money, helping to make kids’ playgrounds a better, safer place? You think she raped and murdered her friend and coworker?”

He stopped talking and let that impossible truth sit in the air.

“She wouldn’t do that.”

“Unless she was in love with you. Or feared Josie knew something, something rotten about your charity and was going to—”

He started to shut the door. I doth protested with a softening plea and wedged my foot inside the path of the door. It didn’t hurt which was cool.

“I know. I agree some the circumstances feel…uneven…but maybe Glasser was doing something behind your back, Josie found out and was going to tell you so she had to stop her. Maybe Glasser had a partner, someone to help her and that’s who raped her and together they—”

“You need to leave. Right now. You ever come near me again, come near my family, near my house, near my charity, I’ll fucking destroy you.”

He wound back the door so I moved my foot before he slammed it shut. Seconds later, I could hear him explain to his perfect little daughter that the man was trying to sell him something and to never open the door to strangers.

Like you do.

I shuffled back to my car. Hit the ignition and drove out fast.

Moorpark was stacked with commuters and slow going. I considered rerouting until I saw those orange workout pants in the distance.

Mrs. Glenn was running fast and hard.

I wanted to scream at that pretty face that her perfect husband would have cheated on her with Josie Pendleton if only Josie’d let him. He was probably already cheating on her.

Thankfully the scar on my face in the rearview mirror reminded me how stupid I was sometimes. And the way she was running, hard and pounding the concrete with each stride, somehow reminded me that people with perfect houses can have shit lives, too.

She hit a red light. Kept those knees bouncing.

I pulled up next her and lowered the window.

She caught my eye and looked away.

I bellowed.

“I hope you trust your husband.”

She wouldn’t look, but she could hear me. The light stayed red. The knees bounced higher. Gaze locked straight. Focused and determined.

Ignoring the LA crazy.

The light burst green.

She hit the road hard.

I sat. At peace with something, watching her run away as a chorus of horns blared behind me.

Like I’d taken some kinda stupid higher road.

 

 

Thursday, October 1st, 5:33 p.m.

 

The Damned Lovely was lit up. People were buzzing and the jukebox blazed some fierce brass soul. Lily nodded, and the rest of the liquored cheeks angled my way.

But it all got quiet as I stepped up to the bar.

“What’s what?”

Slice edged my way.

“That guy Frazier called me. He wants to buy my life. You did it, Sammy!”

“Whaddya mean he wants to buy your life?”

“I don’t know but he had me on the phone with this Beverly Hills lawyer. They offered me ten grand. You believe that? All cuz of you. Jiles set him up—on me!”

“So that’s it?”

“What’s it?”

“You’re just cuttin’ me out?”

“What? No. Not at all. Don’t get all paranoid. I asked him, I made sure of it, he said he’d get you in. Help consult on the show. He even said that word. ‘Consult,’ I mean, come on, it was your article. We can’t do this without you. And get this, he said I’d be a producer. You believe that? I’m a producer now.”

My head shook like a depressed parent. “You actually believed him, Slice?”

He stared lost and muddled.

I laid it out.

“Once you sell your life rights to Frazier, he’s just gonna go around me and you and make his stupid show without us. He’s paying you off. He’s got no reason to give us anything.”

“Na. You’ll see. He’s a good guy. Canadian. Didn’t he tell you that? C’mon have a drink—let’s celebrate. You know how hard up for cash I am. Without this money…it wasn’t lookin’ good, Sammy. This really saves me. And I have you to thank for it. Lemme buy you a round.”

Maybe I shoulda been happy for the old drunk but…I was too angry.

“So you’re not worried?”

“Worried? I just landed ten K for nothin’. Not exactly cause for worry, bud.”

“About the truth coming out. About what you did.”

He hit me with a cold glare. “Why the hell do you think I spend all my time in here, Sam?”

Slice had had enough of me and turned around. Joined the rest of the smiles his newfound bounty was feeding.

I wanted nothing here.

I stormed out.

Right after I took a piss.

And after a shot of Maker’s. Change it up.

And after asking the Rooster for a small favor.

And then I asked Jiles for the rest of the Maker’s bottle to go.

 

 

Thursday, October 1st, 6:13 p.m.

 

The streets were jammed.

Cars locked in snarling heat and crawling over asphalt at a painfully slow clip.

My head was ripping fast.

My fingers were tight on the wheel with ugly white tips.

Slice had betrayed me.

He didn’t care about my article. He cared about his glory. His pay out.

Did I have any right to be angry?

Felt like it. It was my article. My initiative. My work. My content. My sweat and time pushing out those words. And I walk away with six grand minus the Rooster’s fees and agent fees and car repairs and this feeling in my gut.

And Slice gets ten grand.

No wonder betrayal made for ripe art.

I was ready to destroy something.

My muse had betrayed me.

My friend, too.

I smashed the horn and yelled like a man in a movie.

Thank god I had a bottle of Maker’s.

And a goddamn mission.

 

 

Thursday, October 1st, 6:39 p.m.

 

Susan Glasser shuffled out of her car and hustled up to the rusty gate of her apartment complex carrying three heavy canvass bags. I hadn’t seen her since my volunteering stint at Backyard.

She looked the same.

She looked plain and soft and unhappy, even from across the street.

Cars hurtled past the Victory Boulevard apartment complex. I was valley deep. Burbank deep. Where ugly KTLA headlines broke. A healthy mix of porn, mayhem, and too much sun.

It was an old building but looked well maintained and functional. The Rooster had slipped me her address back at the Lovely. Free of charge. I suspected he could smell my pissed-off stink and threw me a freebie like a pal might. Oh, no. Was I really becoming friends with the Rooster now?

I snapped back in.

Glasser was my target.

I needed to focus. I had a mission but lacked any kind of plan. For now, figured I’d sit on her house a while and drink some bourbon like this might make a difference.

Forty-seven minutes later she burst outta the complex carrying a yoga mat wearing a red tracksuit. She waited for the light and then walked west along the boulevard, disappearing around the corner.

I swilled some Maker’s. Ready for battle.

 

 

Glasser’s name was listed alone on apartment 109.

I buzzed 109 at the front gate and no one answered.

Then I pulled out my phone and pretended to be on a call until finally two dudes emerged from within the complex, not giving me a second glance as I edged in, arguing with someone named Ron about a missed doctor’s appointment while the gate locked behind me.

A truly incredible performance.

I weaved around the old-time lima-bean-shaped pool in search of 109, trying to recall if Susan ever mentioned a roommate or a dog, but came up empty. Except for Montgomery. Her beloved green parakeet. I remembered Montgomery.

I braced my broken face and knocked. Montgomery squawked.

I knocked again.

And again.

I checked my shoulder.

I checked for ways in.

There was a private patio nestled behind some potted trees six feet away with a sliding door that looked out onto the pool. I slipped through the plants and tried the door but it was locked. Then I saw the frosted window. It was higher up, protected with a dusty screen, but open a crack. I grabbed one of her patio chairs and stood on it, reaching up, and managed to slide back the window. But I was gonna need to break the screen open if I wanted to get inside.

I cranked back my hand, ready to bust it open but stopped short.

Was I really gonna break in to this woman’s place? Because now would be a good time for a sharp realization, a moment of clarity to highlight how stupid this whole charade had become. Now would be a good time for a wise voice to scream out and tell me to stop.

What you’re about to do is illegal.

Are you really that stupid?

All because of a Twitter birthday message.

My fist smashed through the black screen and ripped away the mesh, as I hoisted my body up, into her apartment.

I chose to ignore that voice. Instead I listened to Josie screaming out inside me.

They got the wrong guy, Sam.

They got the wrong guy.

 

 

My feet were dangling until I lowered myself down onto the back of a toilet, kicking away bottles of moisturizers and exfoliates for somewhere solid to land. The cramped bathroom was brimming with creams, lotions, and conditioners of all kinds. Daytime. Nighttime. Face-mask creams. Jade rollers. This woman really cared about her skin.

I crouched quiet and on edge in case someone was inside.

But only Montgomery was squawkin’ nearby.

The bird was wise. Trouble brewing.

I edged out into the main living space. The parakeet was flappin’ fierce but I didn’t see any alarm motion sensors.

It was a small one bedroom with faded paint and tired furniture. A pleasant kitchenette with some dirty dishes and fresh yellow lilies on the table.

The place was clean and bright.

Except for the pictures of Christ everywhere.

Above the TV. On the table. On the walls. Glasser was JC deep. And the images were dark. Not the happy Christ with angels and sunshine. This was the tormented and pained JC. Caravaggio style. The ones with blood in his palms and dripping out of his body. Shredded flesh. Sunken eyes. On the cross. Taking our sins hard. I never did buy into the racket that we were brought into this world unholy, wrong, and sinful by birth. I’ll own up to my mistakes and faults and wrongs but don’t tell me I’m rotten just for being born.

Anyway.

Those searing images gave off the feeling that Glasser was full of pain, like maybe it was hard to be Susan Glasser, the chipper assistant with a parrot.

I found a desk with a stack of mail and an old MacBook Pro. The computer was password protected so I rifled through the mail. AT&T bills. Coupons from Big 5, Bed Bath & Beyond. Some church mailers. The usual bent. There was a bulletin board overhead with an old headshot of Susan from the nineties in the corner. Dreams in her eyes. Yeah. I’d pegged it. Talent run rot. And there were a bevy of other pics of her at a picnic with Backyard Dreams folks and broken kids. The smiling faces reminded me she was probably a really decent person at heart and the chances of her actually killing Josie were slim.

I shook off the guilt and scoured the drawers. There were tax returns. Saved birthday cards. Appliance warranties. An old diploma. Class of ’90. Just another woman’s life.

Montgomery had stopped flappin’. But he was eyeballin’ me hard. I volleyed a scowl. Right back at ya, Montgomery.

I hit the bedroom. It was clean and barren. The bed made with tight corners. I rifled through her drawers, curious but not excited at the idea of digging up any of porny secrets. There was the expected battery-operated pleasure rod hidden deep at the back. God forbid JC see her enjoy herself. Or allow her to be human. Next to the vibrator I found some faded hardcopy pictures of a guy. He was tall, Latin, and wore cheesy nineties’ Oakley sunglasses and a loose red tank top revealing gym-built pecs and shoulders. He had his arm wrapped around Susan and the little woman was practically glowing. He looked familiar and I tried to square where I’d seen him when I was at Backyard Dreams, working on the office. I couldn’t peg it and figured he was probably among those hapless friends and family faces in the crowd who get sucked into doing charity work. So little Susie Glasser had a crush on Mr. Latin Oakley Sunglass? Well, God bless her and that private rod. He was a good-lookin’ soul. A woman’s got needs, JC. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that.

The rest was bunk. Underwear and headbands and everything else you’d expect to find.

Each minute grew scarier inside and my conspiracy meter was losing juice. The whole mission was feeling more and more like a big ol’ bust. I couldn’t connect a goddamn thing to Josie’s life. And now I needed to get the hell out of there. I peered out the window, pulling back the lacy curtain—eyeing the surroundings just like they’d do in the movies.

There wasn’t a soul in sight. The idea of going back out the screened window flashed past but in the end figured I’d only draw more attention and opted to just sail smoothly out the front door rolling through my made up back story in case I ran into any trouble.

(Who, me? I’m Colin. Colin Patterson from San Francisco—just visiting my good cousin Sus’ for the week. What, the screen? She forgot to leave me her key. Wouldn’t pick up her phone. That is SO Susie! Anyway, nothin’ to see here…so…)

Light burst inside as I cracked open the door. Montgomery got all uppity, flapping into high gear.

“Adios, Monty.”

I walked outside and closed the door firmly behind me.

I walked past the pool.

I walked towards the front gate.

I opened the gate and hit the pavement, breathing a sigh of epic relief. Until I heard—

“Stop right there. Hands wide and out.”

I spun around and two large black cops in those crisp and intimidating LAPD uniforms were drilling down on me.

I fanned out my hands where they wanted them.

“What’s your name?”

“Sam Goss,” I croaked. So much for the Colin backstory.

“Where were you just now?”

“A friend’s place.”

“Who’s your friend?”

“Susan Glasser—she lives here. Apartment 109.” I rambled good, clean, hard facts. We worked at a charity together. I was in the neighborhood. Popped in to say hi but she wasn’t there. Then, I cranked up the deer-in-the-headlights confusion. “Is something wrong? Did something happen?”

They laid it out. A neighbor made me. Saw me bust open the screen. Saw me rifling through dear Susie’s life. And. They could hear Monty puffing and flapping like something was wrong.

They snatched my wrists together.

I was cooked.

 

 

Thursday, October 1st, 8:16 p.m.

 

The ex-cops at the Lovely had always pressed rule number one into me with their tales of cuffed fools in the back of their squad cars blabbering on about their innocence and only sinking deeper into trouble with conflating facts and truths.

KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT.

I failed proper and rambled on hard.

“Pinner? Detective Pinner? You don’t know him? He works Glendale PD but I know he does crossover work with the Central precinct. He knows me. He’ll vouch for me. This is all a big misunderstanding.”

I sounded like a bad Law & Order day player.

But this was real. My hands were actually handcuffed and digging into the car seat.

I was one of them.

A threat. A bad guy. The guy on COPS without a shirt and face all blurry and shameful.

That was me. Right now. Except for the shirt part.

“What about Jiles Johnson? Or Gregory Baskin, goes by Slice? They’re ex-cops. Friends of mine. They’ll clear this up.”

The boys upfront ignored me.

The radio squawked.

I prayed for a breaking hostage situation. A freshly shot cop. One of those, “We got bigger fish to fry, kid!” moments where they let me go with an afterschool special stay outta trouble now so they can save the world from a real bad guy. Not me.

Not Sam from Portland after a few swigs off a Maker’s bottle in my car.

Oh no.

My car. I realized the Volt was in a residential no parking zone after eight p.m. For some reason this felt particularly infuriating. Not the arrest for breaking and entering with possible jail time and permanent criminal record. They were gonna tow my car. More money gone. That really burned.

I looked out the window and caught the stare of a curious woman. She was about forty. Had a son in a car seat behind her. She flashed a wary glance, as if she was looking at some kinda monster who might lash out and hurt her little boy at any moment.

I would never hurt a little boy.

 

 

Thursday, October 1st, 9:00 p.m.

 

They guided my head outta the car and into processing. I knew the routine. I’d weaseled my way into some ride-alongs thanks to the boys at the Lovely and had seen how they book ’em. There was no fanfare or flashbulbs like some exciting bust. It was all ugly routine:

Name and address. SSN.

Personal effects

Fingerprints.

Mugshot—I straight-faced best I could. As best I could push down the shame.

They led me into a holding area I’d anticipated would be filled with bottom feeding scum who, albeit worst-case scenario, would bust my face and want my bum.

Only I was alone.

And it was quiet.

And cold. And I’d hoped there would be others whom I could compare and easily convince myself by saying, See? I’m not nearly as screwed up as all these other lost souls. I’m just a little crooked. Like, inbounds crooked.

The arresting officers were grouchy dogs. No one talked to me. No one told me what was happening. I was sobering up fast. My mouth was dry and I asked for some water but they didn’t care. They were busy. Staring at their phones and tssking the white boy in the cell.

But I knew my rights.

I’d get the call.

And I knew just who to call.

 

 

Friday, October 2nd, 1:09 a.m.

 

The locks buzzed.

A fresh-faced police officer waved me up and led me into an interrogation room.

The sight of Lily with her worn out briefcase and unimpressed scowl was a beautiful thing. She shook her head and stared like a broken parent.

Rescuing her rascal son who’d gone off the rails yet again.

I said thank you and lauded her with pleasantries but she was already into business.

“Did you steal anything?”

“No.”

“Did you damage anything?”

“No. Wait—maybe some bottles of moisturizer.”

She was scribbling notes.

“So…why did you break in to this woman’s apartment?”

I laid out my theory. How Josie was found in Glasser’s aunt’s car. How Josie was volunteering at Backyard and musta got wise to some crooked shenanigans at the charity so the woman had to silence her. Or someone at the charity did. But it couldn’t be Glenn cuz he was in Buffalo. And there was no one else I knew of yet but was on the scent.

Lily looked confounded. Then got back to business.

“Were you drunk? Just tell me the truth, it’s only gonna make your life harder if you don’t.”

“I mean…just the usual.”

She needed clarity and hit me with the Lily look.

“I’d been drinking but I wasn’t drunk.”

“How much had you been drinking? It could help us.”

“Half of a bottle of Maker’s.”

“Were you driving?”

“Yea.”

Her shoulders dropped. “Okay.”

Reset time.

“Have you ever been arrested before?”

“No. I’ve been held overnight a few times but that was in college. Years ago. Just drunk college shit. I was never charged.”

She clocked me that parent look again. Like I should I know better. “There’s a pattern.”

“It was college. Gimme a break, Lily.”

“You need to stop drinking, Sam.” She said it matter of factly, like it was no big thing, then carried on, “Jiles said they caught the creep who killed this girl so are you lying to me? I don’t care why you broke in—I don’t care if you just wanted to…smell her panties or masturbate in her bed. I just need to know you didn’t trash the place or have some vindictive motive that’s gonna bite us later on.”

“No. No secret agenda. I’m telling you the truth.”

“Okay.”

She stood up and knocked on the door. We waited in silence. She appeared to be thinking and I didn’t want to interrupt but couldn’t help and blurted out—

“Thank you, Lily.”

She nodded and looked almost empathetic. Almost.

“Lemme see what I can do.”

The same fresh-faced cop brought me back to the holding fridge.

I sat on the hard bench, waiting. It was quiet and calm and felt like the night would never end. Seeing Lily made me think it might all be okay. I closed my eyes and tried not to think about the pressing piss in my bladder. I tried not think that maybe Lily was right.

 

 

The locks clinked open.

My eyes blasted wide.

Some different cop with a snarl waved me out and led me down the hall towards Lily. She forced a tight smile and handed over my wallet and belt and keys and phone.

“We can talk in the car. Let’s get outta here.”

Lily led the way.

God bless that force of a woman.

 

 

Friday, October 2nd, 8:39 a.m.

 

Lily laid it out.

Glasser was pressing charges, second-degree breaking and entering. In California that carries a maximum of three years in state prison and a ten K fine.

That was the ugly part.

The not so ugly part was she got the name of the judge assigned to my case and called Jiles right away. Pamela Moyer. Jiles knew her. Pinner did, too. They both put in a good word this morning. They vouched. Got me released with only a two K bail.

“Who put up the two thousand?”

“I did.”

“Thank you. I’ll pay you back. Work it off. Whatever it takes.”

She didn’t slow her stride.

“I know. Once they assign the prosecutor, we can discuss a potential plea. Or you can get a different lawyer. It’s up to you. But right now, you should go home and get some sleep.”

“Yeah. Can you drop me?”

“Of course.”

She dug out her keys from somewhere deep in her purse. It was quite possible she’d been up the entire night helping me. Helping me instead of her daughter.

“I was serious about what I said. You need to stop drinking, Sam.”

 

 

Friday, October 2nd, 11:09 a.m.

 

Nick was buzzing around the kitchen. He made me a coffee like it was just another Friday cuz it was just another Friday for him. But I caught him looking at my scarred-up face. Like he was ashamed of something. It was a helluva price to pay but getting my faced smashed up did wonders for my roommate’s manners. Nick was almost tolerable.

I looked up my checking account on my phone: $1306.88. Rent was coming fast, due in eleven days. I still owed the Rooster. Now I was in the hole with Lily. My agent wouldn’t talk to me so it was impossible to know when my six K was coming. If at all. I had fierce doubts it would even happen. And now I needed a lawyer for my case.

My case.

I was out on bail.

I was one of those people. I would have to fix that.

But first, I needed my car back. I needed to make money.

 

 

Friday, October 2nd, 11:36 a.m.

 

It was a beautiful day in Los Angeles.

I ordered a ride, waiting for Peter in a black Ford Focus.

We drove in silence.

As we approached my destination and I looked for the posted tow-away contact number, something beautiful happened. My Volt was there. Parked all quiet with nary a ticket. She looked like a little victory. Like I’d finally caught a break.

The engine charged up and we hit the road. I was eager to get my mind off things, eager to make some cash and think about a better tomorrow.

I powered on my app, ready to go when the yellow flag dropped. My account had been frozen. The arrest had obviously triggered some safeguard installed by the company to protect the public from men like me.

I called my supervisor Greta but couldn’t get through and left some words on her voicemail.

This was all a terrible misunderstanding.

I had to believe my own lie.

 

 

Friday, October 2nd, 11:58 a.m.

 

Greta called back.

Greta didn’t buy it.

I couldn’t blame her. She looked the other way after the boys busted my face and smashed my car, but this was a step too far.

“You willfully broke the law, Sam,” she reminded me.

I reminded her about the whole innocent until proven guilty thing, but she got quiet and unimpressed.

There would need to be a review before I could start driving again.

This was gonna take some time.

I didn’t have time.

I needed money.

I needed an alt.

I needed what I always needed in this moment.

I needed a drink.

 

 

Friday, October 2nd, 12:11 p.m.

 

No doubt word had spread.

Gather round, everyone!

No way even Lily, known for keeping her cards close, could resist spinning this yarn. Lemme tell ya who I just bailed outta lockup.

The slugs lived for that juice.

I would need to own it. Damn right I broke in. Had a lead I couldn’t shake. Jiles would understand. Slice, too, but I didn’t care about him right now. That’s what I kept telling myself, anyway.

Nina Simone was wailing on the jukebox as I pushed through the door and waddled in all full of shame and indignation. The mood felt tight and a hush rippled out across the bar.

Slice was at his usual post so I hit the opposite far end of the wood. Jiles greeted me with a smile that reminded me of my father.

“Rough night, eh, Sammy?”

“So it goes, eh, Jiles?”

“How’ya holdin’ up champ?”

“You know me, still swinging for the fences.”

“Atta boy. You write it down?”

“Not yet. Needed one of your tonics first.”

“Why don’t you go write about it. You always feel better after you write it down, get it out of your system. It makes you happy.”

“I will. Need a drink first.”

I rapped the bar with my knuckles and could feel Slice staring at me as Jiles just stood there, with his back straight.

“May I please have a drink, sir?”

Jiles shimmied off and returned with a clear bubbling liquid adorned with a lime.

Nina Simone wailed about praying and running to the river and running to the lord and to help me.

“What is this?”

“Sprite.”

“I don’t wanna Sprite.” Jiles could smell the hate glaring behind my eyes.

“Best I can do. For now. Like I said, why don’t you go write it down?”

“I’ll just go to another bar.”

Jiles shrugged like this wasn’t his real concern, like he was trying to help me and my disdain burst up and hard out of my throat.

“You’re supposed to understand! No one else. But YOU’RE supposed to get what this is really about, Jiles!”

I swiped the glass off the bar with the back of my hand and it shattered on the ground.

It hurt my hand.

It hurt even more to hear it shatter like that.

Jiles got tall and looked like a real cop again.

The slugs got tight.

The place got quiet. Nina wailed about a Sinnerman. Running to the river.

So I walked out.

 

 

Friday, October 2nd, 12:32 p.m.

 

Thank god.

There was a Cheesecake Factory seven blocks away.

I saddled up and ordered an old fashioned and a zitty twenty-something kid behind the bar had to look up the ingredients. It tasted like watered-down booze syrup.

I smashed three of them.

I needed to talk to someone.

I thought about calling my sister but she could always tell when I was a few drinks in.

I thought about Margaret.

I thought about Allison.

I called Allison.

Allison was pure. Allison was beautiful.

Allison wasn’t currently picking up her phone but I liked hearing her voice coo on the message. “This is Allison. Leave a message thanks byyye.”

She had a swell singsong bye that reminded me of a Southern bell.

I rang it again for the byyye when her voice suddenly clicked on:

“Hello?”

“Oh. Hey, it’s Sam.”

“I know. I’m at work and I can’t really talk, what’s up?”

“Uh, just…nothing. You good?”

“Yeah…is that it?”

“Yeah.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m at the Cheesecake Factory in Glendale. It’s beautiful in here. Kinda orange and dark. They got music. Air conditioning. And they got so many things on the menu. Wanna come meet me? We can have pad thai AND enchiladas—they got ’em both, Allison. Pad thai and enchiladas. And you should see the portion sizes. This place is magnificent.”

“Sounds like you need some water, Sam.”

“They got that, too!”

“I have to go. I’m at work—”

“I like your voicemail message.”

“Sam…” She sounded disappointed.

“Oh go fuck off,” I snapped. “Not you, too. Please not you, Allison.”

The line went dead.

I shouldn’t have cursed.

I really shouldn’t have cursed.

I ordered another drink. And zitty boy had memorized the fillings. If nothing else, I’d educated a young man on how to make a proper old fashioned.

“Easy on the bitters, mate.”

He smiled like a nice guy and the drinks improved.

She was right. But I was committed to drive this painful day into the ground.

I was committed and smiled.

I railed at the injustice. The conspiracy that robbed this world of the once beautiful Josie Pendleton!

I wanted to smell her shirt.

I was asked to lower my voice.

I requested Sam Cooke. Wilson Pickett?

I was asked to please lower my voice.

I requested Otis Redding. Roy Orbison. Aretha Franklin something, please god, with soul, with intent. Something, anything better than nineties’ soft rock.

I was asked to settle up.

I owed $131.27. I tipped zitty right.

Then.

I cursed and railed. This vapid, soul-sucking excuse of a watering hole.

The manager escorted me to the nearest exit, guiding my arms, and steering me out. The tourists and students staring.

I was no longer welcome at the Cheesecake Factory.

I walked into an alley and pissed like an animal.

I walked further on enjoying the sunshine and found Pacific Park where a T-ball team was practicing. Some moms with strollers strolled clear wide. Some dads with visors and pleated shorts eyed me suspiciously.

There was a beautiful water fountain and I sucked back the liquid that tasted like metal. I waddled to the top of the bleachers and watched the children play ball. The hunched-over coaches poking and prodding the little tykes. Clobbering an outfield field grounder like a pack of hyenas. The little fellas didn’t even know where to run, where second base was. Little misguided souls.

I said it out loud, “Misguided souls.”

 

 

Friday, October 2nd, 3:55 p.m.

 

“Hey man. Hey. Hey. Yo. HEY.”

A man was rocking my shoulder back and forth, waking me from my passed-out slumber. His was face silhouetted with the sun blaring behind a palm tree over his shoulder.

He was unhappy. Just like the guy next to him.

“This is a family park. YOU NEED TO GO.”

They were the T-ball coaches, now coaching me off these bleachers as their wives and kids looked on uneasy.

I straightened up and saw that I’d pissed myself.

I pretended not to care.

I got to my feet and shuffled off the bleachers, down to the water fountain. Took a long pull and walked away, embarrassed.

I dug through a garbage can and found a plastic bag that I filled with leaves, then held it in front of my crotch hoping it would cover my piss stain as I walked back to my car.

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

I pulled it out and wiped drips of my own urine off the glass screen, relieved it wasn’t damaged. The incoming 415 area code felt suspicious and I wasn’t wild about touching the wet device any more than I had to, so…let the call go to voicemail.

Then it rang again.

And again.

I accepted the stupid 415, pressing the piss-soaked phone against my temple, pretending to be all cheery like everything was rosy.

“Oh hello?!”

“Sam? This is Glenn Royce.”

I stalled out. Why’s Glenn calling me?

“From Backyard Dreams? I just heard about what happened at Susan Glasser’s apartment…”

He stopped talking and I tried to square why the hell he would have any reason to call me other than to lash out. But he wasn’t mad. He sounded concerned, but not mad.

“…I’d like to talk to you. In person. I know this is a crazy call to get out of the blue but…can I come meet you somewhere? Wherever you are. It’s urgent. Is now a bad time?”

I could smell my own urine on the phone and stared at the bag in front of the stain on my pants.

I doubled down with glee. All in.

“Now’s a great time, Glenn! I’m in Pacific Park in Glendale. Off San Fernando. You know it?”

“No, but I’ll find it. I’m on my way. Leaving from North Hollywood now.”

I waited in the sun.

I thought about my old friend Slice and how much he’d love today’s episode of the Sam show.

I almost missed him.

 

 

Friday, October 2nd, 4:33 p.m.

 

Twenty-nine minutes later Glenn’s sparkling white Land Rover pulled up. I’d seriously considered getting a Lyft, going home, showering and returning, pretending to be clean but…

Fuck Glenn Royce.

Let him see the real me.

The me with Cheesecake Factory piss on my clothes. I didn’t owe him anything. I never hurt him. And what the hell did he want, anyway?

He got out of the car and legit double-taked at the sight of me crumpled on a bench.

He approached with caution and genuine concern. “You okay?”

I flashed a phony LA smile, “Right as rain, Glenn.”

“Thanks for meeting me. Look, I just wanna say…I’m sorry for what happened to you at Susan Glasser’s apartment.”

“Why would you be sorry about that?”

“I don’t mean to be coy but…can you keep a secret?”

“I can. Unless…you know, I can’t.”

He seemed content with that flippant bark and carried on. “After you showed up on my doorstep, with those crazy accusations that Susan was stealing from me, I couldn’t shake thinking about it and…it kinda rattled me. So I took a closer look at our earnings. You were right, Sam.”

I stared.

Incredulous.

Me?

“Right about what?”

“Susan has been stealing from me. From the charity. For a long time. I had no idea. She was smart. Secretive. Played me completely. Buried it in phony corporate tax laws. Funneled our earnings into some bogus shell corporations. Spliced profits to take care of made-up zoning laws and fake insurance permits and office accounting fees. It’s a disaster. I trusted her completely, and I can’t believe I was so blind. That’s why we kept losing money, why we had to downsize and move offices to that dump in North Hollywood. I think it’s been going on for years…”

He shook his head, burning mad.

I should’ve been happy. Vindicated. But I sat there, empty.

“How much?”

“Hundreds of thousands of dollars. More maybe. I don’t know the full scope of it yet.”

He looked at me now, square in the eyes. “You were right.” He said it again like he couldn’t believe it. “I’m sorry for not believing you. I want to thank you, really. And…I want to help you now.”

“You wanna help me?”

“If it weren’t for you, none of this would have come to light.”

“Josie was the one who figured it out. I was just following her.”

“I want to know everything. From the very beginning. How you got onto this, how Josie got onto it…who else is involved…How you figured out it was Susan’s aunt’s car she was killed in. All of it.”

I rolled back to day one. Seeing Josie at The Damned Lovely. Seeing her at the morgue. The funeral. Josie telling Allison there was something rotten about his charity. Magnet Max. Ullverson. All of it. He shook his head, incredulous but all lit up. “So you think Glasser was working with this guy Max?”

“Or someone there. But Josie must’ve figured out that Glasser was stealing money from your charity and feeding it to Patriot Strong. That’s gotta be the reason she got hooked up with those clowns before Max sunk his claws into her.”

“I know for a fact Susan’s not Josie’s killer. Her alibi is solid.”

“Which means it has to be someone connected to Patriot Strong. Someone connected to the money who knew that Josie was gonna blow the whistle, who felt threatened that if word got out, they’d be left without a chair when all that music stops.”

We sat in silence awhile until Glenn pegged his next move.

“I’m gonna hire a private investigation firm. If people discover their money’s been syphoned out of my charity into Patriot Strong, it’ll take me down for good. I need to get it back, but I have to do it discreetly. Whoever I hire is probably going to want to talk to you. Would that be all right?”

“Yeah, fine.” I shrugged. All he cared about was the money.

“I have to do this quietly. Can I trust you won’t sound any alarm bells here?”

“Yeah.”

“I was serious before. I wanna help you, Sam.” He looked at me as if he was embarrassed or something. “Kinda looks like you need it.”

“I need money. And a lawyer.”

“You’re in luck. I’m a rich lawyer.”

I stared at his perfectly clean, shaven face. His white teeth and perfect jaw line. His suit. That shiny car behind him. This was usually the part where my disdain bubbled up but that all kinda melted away.

“You really wanna help me?”

I caught him staring at the fresh scar on my face and wondered if he could smell the piss on my pants.

 

 

Friday, October 2nd, 5:44 p.m.

 

I wouldn’t let Glenn drive me back to my car.

Some righteous piece inside didn’t want my piss on his car seats. Bigger part of me was straight-up embarrassed. But I did take the $310 cash offered that he had on him. Along with the promise to help me with my mounting legal woes.

The walk back was slow but overwhelming.

The Glendale sunshine actually felt soft and warm on my cheeks.

Welcomed almost.

With each step I heaved fresh oxygen and self-purchase. Purchase that my mission and goal and intent and everything I wrapped my pride around, hell, my entire identity as a man of tremendous ill judgment, was more than just a sham.

I wanted to bust down the doors and holler hard at the slugs hanging off the bar. Spit my victory in Jiles’s righteous mug. Rail with Slice over icy bursts of bourbon and glory. We was right after all, amigo!

But that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon.

That place was dead to me. My time at the Lovely was past.

I shook off that ugly reality and considered next steps.

Angles and plays. Options.

I came up empty.

How the hell was I gonna to chase this connection between Backyard Dreams and Patriot Strong without sounding any alarms?

Then it hit me.

Jimmyface999

 

 

Friday, October 2nd, 7:22 p.m.

 

My body smashed into the desk, waking up my computer with a jolt. I punched in jimmyface999 and quickly found Josie’s old emails I’d been looking for.

 

—————Original message—————

From: jjpendleton98@gmail.com

Date: Wed, July 01, 2018 at 11:11 p.m.

Subject: story

To: jimmyface999@gmail.com

 

You in town? I’m working on something you’re gonna like.

 

—————Reply message—————

From: jjpendleton98@gmail.com

Date: Wed, July 01, 2018 at 11:11 p.m.

Subject: Re: story

To: jimmyface999@gmail.com

 

Yeah I’m around. Can you give me a bite? Big or small?

 

—————Reply message—————

From: jjpendleton98@gmail.com

Date: Wed, July 01, 2018 at 11:11 p.m.

Subject: Re: story

To: jimmyface999@gmail.com

 

I’m gonna blow the lid off a very powerful organization…and I’m gonna need your help once I got the goods.

 

—————Reply message—————

From: jjpendleton98@gmail.com

Date: Wed, July 01, 2018 at 11:12 p.m.

Subject: Re: story

To: jimmyface999@gmail.com

 

C’mon at least give me a taste? Corporate? Local?

 

—————Reply message—————

From: jjpendleton98@gmail.com

Date: Wed, July 01, 2018 at 11:12 p.m.

Subject: Re: story

To: jimmyface999@gmail.com

 

 

That smiley face.

It was all crashing back in.

Back when, Slice agreed the guy sounded like a reporter. If that was the case, jimmyface999 might still be interested in a good yarn. And now I had the answer he asked Josie for.

Glenn had asked me to keep quiet about all this, and I intended to. But there were angles to play. I didn’t intend to expose him or his organization, but I needed to move on Josie’s case. Nothing was going to stop me now.

Except maybe going to jail.

Whatever.

That reality seemed impossible, so I wrote to jimmyface999, shrouding my identity and exposing only pieces of my legwork. Instead I hit him with the truth explaining I knew what organization Josie was gonna blow the lid off of and that I suspected that was what killed her, not some terribly named Glendale Grabber.

I hit send and took a shower. By the time my ass plunked back on the chair there was a bold message in my inbox from jimmyface999 asking for more information I ignored cuz I saw three delicious words at the bottom:

Can we meet?

 

 

Friday, October 2nd, 9:22 p.m.

 

The Americana fountain was in full ridiculous swirl.

The open-air mall was brimming with horny teenagers and rich Armenian dudes. A public place felt like the right way to go meet some anonymous would-be reporter I’d found by hacking into a dead girl’s email account. I waited anxiously on the edge of the fountain watching moms push strollers and kids shuffle into the Pacific theater. It was cool out and the longer I waited the worse my expectations dragged.

Maybe this was a big mistake.

Maybe jimmyface was actually a political titan with deep pockets out to protect the radical right and this was all a trap. I’d fed right into his hand! The bad movie clichés were hard to escape until I saw an Eastern European woman in her early forties with dark glasses wearing a leather jacket approach. She had that I’m smart and busy look on her face that made you wanna get the hell out of the way.

“The pistongame?”

“Nine-nine-nine?” Then, added awkwardly, “My name’s Sam.”

“Ellen.” She sized me up with a lackluster smirk. “So…what’s your story?”

She had an East Coast no bullshit air I found extremely appealing. Decisive and all business. Like her existence on this planet had a purpose. Like she didn’t belong at the Americana in Glendale on a Friday night. But before unleashing my tangled tale, I wanted more on her.

“How do you know Josie?”

She laid out the past. They’d met at a Backyard Dreams event years ago. Ellen worked at the LA Times covering soft civic functions built for the frothy California section. River clean-up festivals. OC parades. Downtown art walks and the like.

They hit it off.

Ellen admired Josie’s spirit for goodwill and continued to come out to Backyard events through the years. They’d catch up. Josie went to art school. Ellen survived some cutbacks and got pushed to work the obituaries. It was a thankless gig, but she caught a spark. Some forgotten obits caught her attention. A string of homeless guys turning up dead in South Gate. She dug deeper and flagged trouble. Worked the story with a crime guy from Metro and uncovered the real killer. The story put her on the map and it was a welcome pivot to the crime beat. She’d lost touch with Josie and seemed genuinely rattled when news broke of her murder. She even went to her service.

But none of this made any sense to me.

“Josie said she was gonna blow the lid off a big organization, turns up dead right after, and you—a crime reporter—you don’t even look into it?”

I could see her jawbone tighten.

“You think she’s the only person to send me an email teasing a big story? I get messages like that all the time. ‘Trust me, Ellen, this is the one. Pulitzer Prize stuff.’ And yes, I was concerned when she was killed but I talked to the detectives and they were convinced it was the Grabber. And then they found the guy. What was I supposed to do? She was dead and didn’t give me any details. I can’t chase down every half lead I’m fed no matter who it’s from or how important they think it is. What I can do is show up at the Americana on a Friday night when someone emails me out of the blue claiming to have some valid information. Now…you said you knew about this ‘organization’ Josie was gonna supposedly blow the lid off of? Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“Yes and? Who was it?”

“There were two. One of them was Patriot Strong.”

Ellen laced a tight poker face except her eyebrows danced up like this obviously struck a chord.

“And the other?”

“I can’t get into that yet.”

“Okay. But you believe this led to her death?”

“Yes.”

“Why? What was so important she was going to expose?”

I laid out the money trail. Threw in enough coded speak on Backyard I could only hope she’d buy. “So you think whoever killed her just pretended to be the Glendale Grabber?”

“Exactly.”

“Do you have any proof, Sam?”

“I’ve connected the car she was killed in to the organization she was going to expose.”

Ellen leaned in, sniffing some chum in the water. “Do the police know this?”

“Some of them. But they wouldn’t take me seriously.” That part was true. I left out the other stuff about getting drunk and breaking into a woman’s apartment. “Believe me, her death had nothing to do with the Glendale Grabber, other than whoever was behind it was smart enough to use his MO as cover.”

I could see her eyes twinkle as they danced around my face looking for lies.

“Who exactly are you in all this? How do you know Josie?”

I laid out the facts enough to sound legit.

But she pegged the truth. “And lemme guess that ‘other’ organization. Was it Backyard Dreams? I mean…it kinda lines up.”

So much for shrouding the truth.

“I’m not gonna comment on that but lemme tell you,” I backpedaled hard, “You don’t wanna rattle any cages on that front. They’ve got deep pockets and will end you if their name gets out into the press. And me, if it comes out I was your source.”

She laughed and softened like she’d heard that line before. Or heard enough to maybe trust me.

“How did you get my email? That was a personal account.”

“I can’t really tell you that.”

Now she squirmed and looked me straight in the eye. Wrestling with something.

“Josie called me a few days before she was killed, wanted to ask my advice about something.”

This now, my chum.

“About what? “

“She was pretty vague but maybe…” She trailed off and for the first time Ellen looked stung. “I should’ve taken her seriously. It literally never even occurred to me that Josie Pendleton would be chasing something legitimately dangerous. I mean, she was a fine arts major who volunteered at a kids’ charity.”

“What did she ask you?”

“Just some advice. On getting information out of a source without them suspecting anything. She played it off like it was no big thing. Said she was following someone. I thought she was talking about a boyfriend or something.”

“Did she say who it was?”

“No. Just that they hung out at some dive bar. She said it was around here actually, in Glendale.”

My world stopped.

My heart pounded real.

I went into lockdown.

I stared on the fountain spewing water and forgot to breathe.

Ellen kept speaking, needling me with questions. “Does that mean anything to you? Do you know where she could have gone around here?”

I put on my very own jimmyface and finally looked her square in the eyes.

“No.”

 

 

Saturday, October 3rd, 12:07 AM

 

No one could be trusted.

 

I would reset and align.

I would be clean. Sober.

I’d pack a smile and blast them with respect.

I’d look them in the eyes and listen like we were friends.

And then, I would strike.

For Josie.

“For Josie.” I said it aloud, lying in my bed, stirring through the night.

I vowed not to let down my ghost crush.

Josie had been on the scent the whole time.

She was after someone at the Lovely.

Someone there was connected to Patriot Strong. Which meant someone there was lying to me. Probably in league with Glasser.

No wonder Josie was at the bar.

Alone.

Reading a book.

In stealth.

She was hunting.

And now, so would I.

 

 

Wednesday, October 7th, 5:16 p.m.

 

I worked strategy and outcomes. Pitfalls and options.

I refused all calls.

I ran data from my room.

But mostly, I cleaned up. Scrubbed the filth from my body. Scraped a razorblade across my face eager to shed some kind of slimy preexisting condition.

I slipped on my good black jeans. My rowdy orange socks.

I pinned on the crisp, dry-clean-only grey button-down shirt from Barneys. The shirt that fell just right and angled my shoulders as close to a movie star as I’d ever be. My confidence shirt.

I took deep breaths and went over the plan in my head.

I had done my homework.

I felt numb with determination. Armed and loaded with the truth about the demon who’d been sitting at the bar next to me this whole time.

But I still had no idea who it was.

 

 

Wednesday, October 7th, 6:01 p.m.

 

My hand pushed open the brass handle and I stepped inside The Damned Lovely. The Van Dykes cooed some doowop gold.

One by one, my flock found me.

Jewels crossed directly in front of the door with a tray of martinis and grimaced as if she weren’t sure whether to be happy or sad to see me.

Behind her, tucked in the far-off corner behind the jukebox, the Rooster peered up from his computer, letting the light from the screen shine off his dirty glasses. He stared. Dead-eyed like a savant streaming a billion thoughts all without showing the least bit of emotion. Then instantly returned to whatever shadiness on his screen I’d interrupted.

Jiles smiled from behind the bar. Like he wasn’t the least bit surprised to see me. Like a part of him wanted to. Like my own father looked on a holiday.

Then there was Lily, who caught the look on Jiles’s face and craned her head along with some tight cheap pantsuit, to see who’d earned the king’s guarded attention. Seeing me, she huffed some air out of her skinny nose.

Slice spun on the stool and hit me with his toothy smile before reining it back in, remembering he was supposed to feel upset or something towards me.

“Hiya, Sammy,”

It was Pa.

Pa bellowed a frothy hello as he glanced up from today’s soggy Sports section. He sounded like he never got the memo on my sordid exit. Or he just plain forgot.

No one could be trusted.

I threw up my hands in mock surrender. “Yes, yes, I’m back. And I’m sorry for being an asshole. Jiles. You still got some Sprite back there?”

The words cut through the tension and the slugs softened.

Lily piped up. “’bout time you came home. We were getting worried about you.”

“Oh, you know me, Lily. The relentless bad penny.”

“That was a hell of an exit,” Jiles bubbled as he handed me the frizzy excuse of a drink.

“I’m sorry, Jiles. I was outta line.” I held up the soda. “Won’t happen again.”

I walked over to Slice, who was pretending not to watch or care.

“Heya, Slice. Just so you know, I’m cool with whatever you wanna do on the article. For real. It’s your life, man. You’ve earned it. No hard feelings.”

“Thanks, Sam. Appreciate that.”

“So?” I asked, “What’s happening with it?”

“I haven’t heard squat.”

“Well, fingers crossed. Like I said, you’ve earned it, champ. Really.”

I settled in and hit a stool. The same stool Josie had taken. Sitting here listening in, pretending to read Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse, eyeing the crop.

I was a spy now.

Seventeen hours earlier I’d decided Jewels would be my first mark. Not because she was a lead suspect but because for one, I felt she’d be the easiest to break. Truthfully I adored the women. And she’d been nothing but a champion of mine throughout all these raucous ups and downs. But she was also the softest mark. The easiest to flip. Compared to ex-cops like Jiles or Slice or a lawyer like Lily who understood interrogations and how to deflect guilt, Jewels wasn’t engineered to understand and covet the art of innocence. At least that was my impression.

So bring on the dance.

I played it slow. Sipped my Sprite, smiled and added to the standard ramblings. About thirty minutes in Jewels sauntered by and I angled up.

“You movin’ them rocks, Jewels?”

“I sold two pieces last week. That ain’t nothin’.”

“Congrats. And how’s the rest of it? How’s life treating you?”

She shrugged like she always shrugged. “You know…”

“Yeah.”

I’d done my homework on Jewels. Holed up in my cage the last couple days, I did as much digging as I could online. She had a private Instagram account. An abandoned Facebook page and no Twitter or LinkedIn. There just wasn’t a lot to find online.

In all the years I’d been coming to the Lovely, Jewels never dug all that deep. I knew surface Jewels. I knew she hated booze. I knew she was from Florida. I knew she lived near the 170 on a street called Banning next to a park where she walked her dog Nico. But she always kept any political talk quiet. It was either cuz she was hiding something and didn’t want to offend customers, even me, or she really just didn’t care.

Or she had a dark secret she didn’t want to get out.

I gazed at her large soft eyes and laid out the speech I’d practiced back home, eventually coming around to the big ask: “So I guess, I don’t know, having tasted a bit of success on Slice’s article, I wanted to do more of that kinda profile journalism. Could I interview you? Write a piece on all things Jewels? If you don’t want to, I totally understand but…hey, maybe you can option it and make a few grand like Slice did?”

Confusion quickly morphed into flattery. Jewels cocked her shoulders in surprise. “Me? Really? I mean…yeah, okay.”

“Just so you know, I might ask some of the others, too.” I lobbed on some emotional juice. “I feel like you guys are kinda family to me now in a weird way.” She nodded but you could tell she was already thinking how odd this advance was.

The backhanded agenda felt kinda mean but hey, For Josie. For Josie, so the chorus sang.

Jewels offered to sit with me that night after her shift. Like our own little date, we found a corner in the back. Jiles eyed us all screwy but not enough to really care at one in the morning, so he asked her to lock up. I dropped my iPhone on the table and recorded every word, pretending to revel in all things Jewels.

She grew up in Florida and bounced from one dysfunctional roof to the next. She’d been dealt a bad hand, with what sounded like inbred, bottom-feeding losers for parents. There was hitting and screaming and a whole lot worse I didn’t want to dig up. Jewels managed to escape to Houston at eighteen and then LA at twenty, thanks to god knows what luck, cash, and happenstance. I angled the conversation to any fun prejudices she might have absorbed along the way, but she didn’t have a dog in the fight.

“So long as people don’t hurt people, I don’t care who they sleep with or what god they worship. Should be that simple, if you ask me.”

Jewels was the poster child for simple but wore it sweet. Not naïve or ignorant but sweet. Like she’d just seen too much pain and hate at the hands of her own father. So when it came down to politics or the white nationalist bent or any of the creed shared by team Patriot Strong, Jewels couldn’t care less.

Unless she was lying.

I nudged her to be honest and share even any unsavory feelings she might harbor against liberal mucks like myself. White or black. But she shut me down as only Jewels can and by the end of the night, it was impossible to believe this woman harbored any passionate hatred like the cats at Patriot Strong. That she was anything more than a broke, simple-minded jewelry maker slinging drinks to make ends meet. I’d been drowning in this Josie pain long enough to sniff out a lead, and after talking to Jewels for all of ninety-two minutes, was convinced the girl was innocent.

That, coupled with access now to one of her private Instagram accounts revealed she was at the Lovely only twelve minutes before Josie was killed. She’d posted a shot of some random high school friends who’d popped into the bar for a drink. The image could have been staged or fabricated by someone remotely but that would have been a deeper technical game Jewels was in no way capable of engineering.

Nevertheless, it was touching to discover the past of this woman I’d seen so many days and nights, slinging all those drinks and putting on a brave face for drunk slugs like me. She told me her real name was Maisie.

I smiled and told her that was a beautiful name.

 

 

Thursday, October 8th, 9:16 a.m.

 

Nick was lonely and looking to joust. Talking headlines and upcoming elections and the tail he’d been circling.

I had time to kill before my next round at the Lovely and pressed him for any updates on Max and Patriot Strong.

He skirted details. Said he’d been steering clear of his miscreants.

“Why the change of heart?”

He shuffled his feet and rambled on about being busy with work and other stuff that in no way seemed to justify his change of course.

I wondered if he’d had a change of heart since they beat my ass.

I wondered if Nick was human, after all.

I buzzed caffeine and holed up in my room looking at printed pictures of the regulars at the bar that were now taped up in my room. Jewels. Slice. Pa. Lily. Jiles. The Rooster.

No one could be trusted.

I scrawled notes under Jewels’s pic from my interview.

Florida. Houston at eighteen. LA at twenty.

Real name Maisie.

I was gonna do the same with Slice. But thanks to the article, I’d already spent days digging deep on the ex-cop and never witnessed a shred of any fanatical righteous hate. I would have to dig deeper but right now felt pretty confident I could put both Slice and Jewels at the bottom of the list.

Pa would be next. Then Lily. Then the Rooster, who scared me. If he was tied up in all this and found out I was chasing him down, he’d hack hard into my life and destroy me. So I wasn’t exactly in a rush to put out that fire. Then there was Jiles. The notion that Jiles could be the one attached in some way to Josie’s death stung my soul a little. He’d been like a father to me and I worshipped the man. I tried not to consider that reality and chose to focus on finding all that I could about Pa online before approaching him at the bar later.

 

 

Friday, October 9th, 5:33 p.m.

 

The old buzzard was sucking back his third Beefeater martini at the far end of the bar. I slid up next to Pa and he smiled. His signature soft boozy glaze that the world was working out just fiiiine, thank you much. Then he stared at his handiwork on my face. Even tracing the scar with his wobbly smooth cold fingers.

“Lookin’ good, Sammy. Lookin’ good.”

I thanked him again for his help that night. He looked touched, but even sad some and offered to buy me a drink.

I ordered a Sprite.

He dished a cold side-eye.

I was ready to lay in my pitch about writing an article on him, but the lonely coot was game to gab, already rambling on about some friend of his from the eighties who turned up in the obituaries. And some devious scam in Tarzana he caught spearheaded by a crooked veterinarian bilking clients for cash.

“You read the Times today, Pa?”

“Cover to cover.”

“Ever hear of that organization called Patriot Strong?”

“Those bastards.” To my surprise, Pa shook his head, well up to speed. “The scourge of our nation.”

He expounded on his hate for white radicals and their ugly principles. It was pretty compelling.

But he could’ve been lying.

So I grilled him for another fifty-seven minutes. He sunk another martini and still looked stony sober. I caught Slice watching us from across the bar, and suspected Jewels mighta let slip my interest in writing a piece on her. Now Slice was sizing me up like I was betraying him. As if we were exclusive and that I had promised to only article-fuck him in the bar.

It kinda brought me a sliver of joy. Like putting aloe on that knife wound he’d slashed into my back.

Anyway, I tuned out Slice and dug into Pa’s past. There was nothing to mine on the net back home except for a few articles on his soured medical career. He told me he grew up in Indiana and moved west with his parents and four sisters when he was six. They set up shop in Hancock Park and Pa’s life played out pretty smooth. He was good at sports and got good grades. Went to UCLA and found medicine. Got married at twenty-seven and set up a practice in Eagle Rock. Had some kids and life was lookin’ swell until his thirst for Beefeater reared earlier and earlier in the day.

After an early Tuesday lunch and two fat martinis, he cut up a girl on the job. Knicked her kidney and sewed her back up without even knowing it.

Til later.

Til it all got ugly fast for Pa.

Got pretty easy to fill in the rest of the blanks. Why his wife divorced him. Why he lived alone in a one-bedroom apartment in Glendale. How he chose the bottle over his family.

On paper, of all the players, Pa actually looked pretty damn good for raping and killing Josie. A dirty old horny alcoholic who resented the world that shut him down. Who mighta seen those legs at the bar and fantasized about her insides. Who mighta followed her to a dark corner and couldn’t help himself.

The only trouble was…

Pa was a soft soul. We’ve all got some kinda monster inside but in all the years of coming to the Lovely, I’d never seen him cut Jewels a dirty-old-man look or lash out at the world. He wasn’t an angry, tormented drunk. He was gliding through, happy to swirl down the drain of life with a smile and a martini. But more than all that, with his leftist bent, there was no way he fit the Patriot Strong mold.

So, I took a different tack and just out and asked him.

“Do you know Susan Glasser?”

“Susan Glasser?” There was no flash of oh shit. No stutter. Or uneasy breath or what’s the plan b. There was only, “No. Who’s that?”

“Did you kill Josie Pendleton?”

“I don’t think so. Who’s Josie Pendleton?” He asked all curious without a hint of guilt or remorse or flash of any memory.

“Forget I asked.”

It wasn’t Pa.

I knew it wasn’t Pa. But I had to ask. And secretly I hoped it had been. Cuz now it was time to hunt Lily, Jiles, or the Rooster.

 

 

Saturday, October 10th, 7:12 p.m.

 

Lily found me at the bar, sitting alone. Drinking Sprite. Scribbling thoughts on my worn-out Rite Aid notepad.

“What are you doing, Sam?”

I stared at her ruffled brow. Is she onto me? Maybe Lily was the demon. I’d told her everything in lockup. She knew all the pieces. All the players. Maybe that’s why she agreed to help me. Friends close, enemies closer style. Yeah, maybe that’s why—

“Did you hire another lawyer?” she asked.

“No.”

“Do you still want my help with your case?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then why haven’t you come talk to me? It’s been over a week. You’re facing some very serious charges. What’s going on?”

“I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”

She clocked the Sprite and looked at me like I was actually telling her the truth. “Well, I’m glad you’re taking my advice at least.”

“Sound legal counsel, Lil. Did they set the hearing date?”

“Yes, it’s in twelve days. I’m going to try to talk to Susan Glasser’s lawyer and see if she’d consider dropping the charges.”

“Lily, have you ever met Susan Glasser?”

“No. Why?”

If she was lying, Lily held the world’s most formidable poker face.

“No reason.”

She clocked me another one of her signature disgruntled brows.

“Sorry. I’m all…” I wheeled my fingers, pretending to be all churned in the head. “I will pay you. I’m just trying to figure out how. Actually, about that. Could I write an article about you? I need to make some more money and the truth is, I really admire—”

“Absolutely not. I’ll let you know what happens with Glasser’s lawyer.” Then, she touched my shoulder with her pale hand like Lily’s cold-ass version of a hug. “Just get your life together.” Then she moved off.

I listened to Derek and the Dominoes riff into the night until—

“So you’re trollin’ the waters, eh, Sammy?”

Slice ambushed my flank. “Heard you’re writing some more articles.” I turned on my stool and faced my old pal as he continued. “Jewels said you’re digging into her life. Pa, too. Lookin’ to make some more coin?”

“Why not, right? Pa’s got a helluva story to tell. Not quite as colorful as yours but…I’m guessing a more noble ending.”

He shrugged, taking the dig on the chin.

“What’s going on with the big show, Slice?”

“Haven’t heard a peep.” He didn’t look sad, just bored. And lonely. Like maybe he even missed me, though he’d never admit it. Truth is, I missed him, too. I wasn’t even mad at him anymore. And boy did I have a yarn to spin. He’d howl hearing about my little escapade in the T-ball park. Pressing the piss-soaked phone against my face with the call from Glenn that ignited my investigation back to life and essentially justified my existence on this planet. The old coot lived for it. It was probably the reason he was even hanging out in this joint. A drunk suckin’ up people’s lives filled with pain and humor he didn’t have the courage himself to endure.

But I had to be smart. I could trust no one. Figured I had Slice on the line and should sniff around. So I played into his ego, asking for some advice.

“What kind of advice?” He was all keen to share.

“Feels like someone might be following me,” I lied.

“Who?”

“Someone from Patriot Strong.”

He straight-faced and dug in on tactics. Write it all down. Faces. License plates. Times. Wheres and whens. Pick up on patterns—that’ll help pin it down. Keep things credible.

I cut him off. “You know much about that organization?”

“No, just the stuff in the paper.” Again, straight-faced. “And what you told me.”

But I pressed him for details. Chance encounters. Third-party connections. Despite the towering whiskey in his hand, the coot sounded clean sober and, as I suspected in my gut and from everything I knew about him, Slice had nothing to give. No tell to show.

I still didn’t trust him but kept things light for now and asked if he’d been watching the boys in blue as we railed on the Dodgers for an hour.

Something about it all felt wonderful.

 

 

Sunday, October 11th, 12:01 p.m.

 

I stared at the pictures tacked against the wall in my room.

I stared at Jiles.

The man’s face loomed large.

Now that Pa was behind me and my soft-pedal stab at trying to pin down Lily failed that left the Rooster and Jiles. A wise and intelligent detective would have looked at the Rooster next. He fit the bill. Awkward. Secretive. The man was so withdrawn he had a crush on a cocktail waitress struttin’ around him in the same room for years and he still didn’t have the guts to strike up a conversation with her. For years. That was the kind of pent-up shyness, resentment, and self-pity that led to raping women. That led to the hate bolstered by Patriot Strong.

The Rooster was the intelligent play.

But I am not a wise and intelligent detective.

I am Sam. A failed writer trying to feel like a wise detective cuz I can’t write one truthfully. A guy out on bail, scarred up and scared broke. An intelligent detective acted in the best interest of solving the case. I was acting in response to an ugly dark fear that the man I most revered, an ex-cop who’d battled years of terror on LA’s darkest streets, a man who had shown me great decency and respect when most men wouldn’t, hell, more than even my own father, a man…a man who…

It scared me.

Because deeper down, in some sick ugly way, Jiles made sense. Jiles was smarter than all of them. He wasn’t a drunk. He would know how to throw off the cops and make it look like the Grabber. He understood crime scenes. He would know what they would be looking for and how to cover his tracks. And Jiles was an obvious closet right winger. He never talked about it because it was bad for business. But he was a traditionalist. A blue-collar cop. And more than that, for Jiles, after so many years of chasing evil day after day, of witnessing the pain caused by humans writ large, it was no secret the experience took a toll on the man. I’d catch those side-eyed glances overhearing civic cats discussing liberal criminal reform programs or the plight of those poor souls in overcrowded prisons. As much as I loved the man, his hardened old school values aligned with Patriot Strong more than any of the regulars in that den. Not the hardcore “West is best” bent but enough to overlap.

The one part I couldn’t square was the rape. But then, Jiles was a man. Men, in their darkest hearts, are all monsters. Maybe that was enough. Maybe he felt he had to conquer her insides in some sick way just so the cops would match the MO. Like some kinda necessary evil.

I needed to know.

I needed to make a run at Jiles.

But first I smashed a Fred 62 black and white milkshake for lunch. The finest in East LA.

Arming me for battle.

I would be ready.

 

 

Sunday, October 11th, 1:01 p.m.

 

Jiles usually got to the bar around eleven. I’d give him some time to get settled. When I walked in, the joint was pure Damned Lovely. Pa, Rooster, Jewels, and Slice. The regular faces save for Lily, which was normal for Sunday.

I found Jiles reading the Business section at the side of the bar. He didn’t look up but just handed me the Sports.

“Mornin’, Sammy,” he grunted even though it was after one p.m.

I picked a down beat and greased him with the wind up. “Jiles…you know how much I admire you…respect your story. Your perseverance…Maybe I could write an article—”

The man squinted. Skeptical.

“What do you want?” He cut the talk and squared me with those dark eyes, like a cop sniffing a lie.

“Money,” I lied. “I’ve got some legit legal fees. Figure if Slice’s piece went well, why not tap the well again?”

His eyes got all squinty. “How long’s this gonna take?”

I smiled victory. The old man’s hubris reared its ugly head.

“When it sucks, we’ll stop. How’s that sound?”

He nodded but looked more annoyed than anything. So I pulled out my phone and a notebook. Then, he waved me off.

“Not here. Let’s hit the box.”

 

 

Sunday, October 11th, 1:07 p.m.

 

Jiles looked around the box. Taking in the scraps of papers and gnarly old coffee cups like he hadn’t been in the room in a while. He pulled a dusty, chipped black stool from the corner and sat across from me as I pushed aside a bunch of research files. Jiles glanced at the Rooster’s list of companies I’d dug up from Patriot Strong along with some old pamphlets I’d pinched on Backyard Dreams.

“Why you hammering on the regulars? No way you’re writin’ articles on Jewels and Pa. Or me. So, what’s what?”

I shoulda known he’d call my bluff on the article.

“I need to ask you some questions.”

Jiles shrugged. Happy to get some honesty out of me.

“Do you know a woman named Susan Glasser?”

“No.”

“Do you know that guy Magnet Max?”

He stared, like he was curious why I’d ask him, and there was a jolt in my guts.

“Of course, he’s the one that runs Patriot Strong. The guys who beat you up, right?”

“Yeah.”

“What about him?”

I laughed to make light of it. “Nothing, just….What do you think of them? Patriot Strong?”

“They’re all a little crazy.”

“A little?” I prodded.

“Yeah.”

“But you’d heard of them before all this? Before Josie died?”

“Yeah. So. Why?”

I could feel my chest tighten some. “How come you never mentioned it? After all the time I spoke about them? After what they did to me?”

“What difference does it make? I knew of them. Not like I’m the only one.”

“But you never told me how you feel about them?”

He shrugged, like it was simple. “I’m running a business, Sam.”

“Come on, it’s just you and me, now.”

He stared and seemed to acknowledge without looking around the room that there was no computer, no phone recording.

“I don’t agree with their whole mentality. But…” He stopped like he was fighting some urge to blurt out the truth.

My heart pounded fierce but I played it light. “I’m just curious what…a guy like you, with your background, might think about them? We’ve never had a chance to talk without those bar slugs around.”

He sucked back some oxygen.

“Wish I didn’t have to but sometimes…Maybe we need to get back to dividing not uniting. All this talk and blathering. Integration. It’s like…blacks and Mexicans don’t get along. Never have and never will. That’s just the way the world works. And trust me—you learn that shit the hard way. Working the streets. There’s too much hate in this country. We were divided then and we’re divided now, we just pretend to grind it out like that’s the solution. But it’s not. I’ve seen it firsthand, Sam. I’ve seen the blood justify that. Blood on the streets. Blood on little girls’ clothes. Every day. Every weekend.” Then, he looked at me. Like maybe he’d gone too far, realizing. “A guy like me? You mean an ex-cop with an axe to grind?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“I don’t buy all they’re selling but sometimes I think we might be better off lining things up the way it used to be. When everything wasn’t so upside down. Like when it was okay to look at a woman and smile like it’s not some kind of offense. I mean...” His nostrils started to twitch some, staring at me with a piece of contempt I’d never seen before in Jiles.

“A guy like me.” He stood up, all tight. “I don’t have time for this. I got a business to run.” He made for the door—stopped before getting very far and looked around the room. At my work, at my face, like he was thinking, connecting some kinda dots. And then, he saw Josie’s shirt.

“Is that…?” He shook his head. “You’re not writing articles, Sam. You’re still chasin’ Josie.”

I hit him with my iron poker face. “We’re just talking.”

“That cut on your face not enough? Getting arrested didn’t set ya straight?” His head swiveled. “I think it’s time for you to find another office. I love ya, kid. I really do. But this path you’re on…You need to stay away from here. From this place. Get your things outta here by tomorrow night. It’s for your own good.”

He walked out.

I never did have a very good poker face.

 

 

Sunday, October 11th, 8:11 p.m.

 

I thought about the juice.

The second sip.

I thought about hitting up zitty at the Cheesecake Factory.

But I resisted.

I took Jiles’s advice and got the hell out of the bar as fast as I could, reeling so hard I even forgot to take Benny with me.

I sat in my car at the curb, still shaking from my talk with Jiles.

Jiles. My north star. My badge of right.

In all my time at the Lovely he never mentioned Patriot Strong but he knew ’em well. Even bought into some of their garbage. But he kept this burning secret quiet the entire time. Josie must have connected Jiles to Glasser. That was the one piece I couldn’t square but it didn’t matter. It lined up just the same—she was obviously hanging out at the bar, hoping to get the proof she needed to tell jimmyface.

I sat in my cold car in the darkness listening to Sam Cooke.

I didn’t want this.

I didn’t want to chase Jiles.

But none of that mattered if he hurt her.

The shit stung and I needed a lifeline. Not for the chase, but because for the first time, I was scared. Jiles was smart. If he suspected I was onto him and gonna blow the whistle about his connection to Glasser and Patriot, why wouldn’t he strike to tie up the loose end? All my information was at his place this entire time. Not to mention my constant updates on the stool.

Had he been tracking me all along?

Was Pinner in on this? Maybe they were working together, maybe that’s why he chose not to chase down the lead on the car I’d found. It all started lining up.

But I bucked the fear.

I needed an ally.

Someone who understood the game.

I needed a cop.

I smiled wide as Sam cooed all feel it don’t fight it.

Don’t fight that feelin’.

 

 

Monday, October 12th, 8:23 a.m.

 

I betrayed my creed.

Slice spilled out of his house carrying a bag of garbage grumbling his way to the black bin in his lane with a slumped-over gait.

“Heya, Slice.”

He turned and looked all ambushed or scared until the feeling quickly gave way to confusion.

“What are you doin’ here?”

“I could use some more advice. Got any coffee?”

He waved me inside with the kind of smile that reminded me how much I missed my old, flawed friend.

“You get paid for your article yet?”

“No, not yet.”

“If you’re short I could float you some cash once I get a piece of that Frazier cake.”

I shook my head. “Thanks, Slice, I’ll squeak by. Always do.”

“So what’s what, Sammy?”

He poured me a cup of watery coffee and I laid it all out in his dirty kitchen. My talk with Jiles and his cagey rebuke. Kickin’ me out of the box for good. Slice soaked up the yarn all nonpartisan. All stone-faced and impossible to read. All cop. Then it was his turn to hit me with questions.

“Can you put him there that night at the scene? Wherever this girl was killed?”

I’d run this through last night, convinced I’d seen Jiles at the Lovely the night of the murder. But there were pockets of time he was unaccounted for. He could have easily snuck out and come back in, with a decent alibi that he was in the office the whole time. It was impossible to know for sure. Especially how foggy I was after getting knocked out. But Pinner had said there were no security or ATM cams where she was found. I considered asking the Rooster to hack into the city’s grid to try to pin down Jiles on any cameras around the area but that was one ugly, timely, and costly fishing expedition I couldn’t afford.

“No.”

“What about his connection to this Glasher woman? Can you square it?”

“Glasser. Not yet.”

“If you can’t put him at the scene or connect him to Glasser, you don’t have enough. Yet. But…Let me think on this. There’s a move here and we gotta act fast cuz you showed him your cards. But I need to think…”

“Thanks, Slice.”

He looked me in the eye and I kinda did the same back. Like some stupid movie reunion moment where the heroes bury their hate and storm the castle for glory.

“Lemme talk to my old crew at Central. They might have a better line here. Just stay low and outta sight. I’ll call you in a few hours.” And then, the man inside Slice, the man who admired and knew Jiles as well as I did, took over sounding ugly sad. “Sammy. If you’re right about Jiles…”

I nodded all heavy and told him his coffee tasted like dirty water.

 

 

Monday, October 12th, 4:56 p.m.

 

I tried to be calm.

I tried to get my mind off it.

I tried not to think about the Bulleit.

I failed hard and Nick found me thirsty, smashing BBQ potato chips in the kitchen.

He asked if I wanted to drive up to Malibu with him.

Nick would never ask me to drive up to Malibu with him if there wasn’t something in it for him. Some gain. He said he was proud of me for staying dry like we were friends or something. I wasn’t sure I believed him. But his usual pity should have worn off by now. Why is he acting so weird to me?

It didn’t matter much cuz with the Jiles drama there was no way I was moving until I got the call from Slice, so Nick took off alone.

Lily called to say she spoke with Glasser’s attorney and there was no way they were going to drop the charges. I told Lily to sit tight.

Lily did not appreciate me telling her to sit tight and hung up on me.

I couldn’t blame her. The woman was trying to help. But with Glenn out to expose Glasser’s malfeasance, I had to believe that would shine a healthy light on my charges. I just couldn’t get into it with Lily yet.

I went back to my desktop computer and searched all things Jiles. I was desperate to unmask some hidden connection between Jiles and Glasser but came up empty. Wasn’t all that surprised given Jiles’s disdain for the internet and social media. I mean, the dinosaur still got the hardcopy newspaper.

I wanted a drink.

I stirred anxious in a bad way.

I tried to watch TV.

I checked the window, fully paranoid that Jiles was gonna show up on my doorstep and ask if I wanted to go for a drive to some place quiet where we could “talk.”

I listened to Lou Reed.

I wanted to drown in booze.

I smashed more BBQ chips.

I smashed stale sour cream and onion remnants I found in a scary place in the pantry.

I felt my throat scream and wail, desperate for the drink.

Desperate for some Bulleit.

But I was dry.

 

 

Monday, October 12th, 8:56 p.m.

 

Where the hell was Slice?

I called and texted. I texted and called. The buzzard stiffed me.

The air was cold but I was sweating fierce.

I thought about Josie.

I thought about Allison.

Lou Reed wailed at ear-piercing volume and I hammered the bed with my fists.

I needed Benny.

I needed to get my stuff from the box before closing.

I needed a drink baaad.

I needed HELP.

I called Allison.

She didn’t pick up.

I texted her: I’m sober.

I called again.

Her soft voice came through like a gift from god.

“Hi, Sam.”

“Hi. I’m sorry for calling you before like I did. That was awful and rude and you didn’t deserve it and I’m sorry. I just wanted to tell you that.”

“Thank you. Are you okay?”

“Never better. Crushin’ it.”

The line got quiet fast. I listened to her breathe, waiting for words that never came.

“How’s my orchid?” I asked, desperate to fill the silence.

“The flowers fell off. But I’m keeping it.”

“How’s the air out there?”

“The air?”

“Yeah. The oxygen. That Santa Monica air…It’s got a taste of the ocean in it. It’s so much better out there.”

“The air’s fine.”

“You don’t realize how nice that air is until you’ve lived in Glendale for nine years. Hey, guess what? I’m listening to Lou Reed. What are you doing?”

“I’m with friends.”

“Oh. Fun. Hittin’ the pier tonight? Rock the arcade and play some Galaga? Ride the coaster and—”

“If you’re being honest about being sober, then I’ll be honest with you and tell you, that makes me happy, Sam.”

“Ya proud of me, Allison?”

“No, that makes me sound like some kinda sister.” She reset. “Are you alone right now?”

“Yeah.”

“At home?”

“Yeah.”

“Thirsty?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe you should go to an AA meeting.”

“I’ve never done that.”

“My sister’s in AA. There’s meetings all over town at all times. You should try going.”

“Thanks. Maybe I will.”

The line got quiet again. But I stopped churning inside.

“You’re really gonna keep that orchid? Even without any flowers on it?”

“Definitely, they come back to life. The trick is to soak them in water every two weeks. My cousin in Colorado does it.” She carried on about her cousin in Colorado who was a magician at reviving orchids. I pretended to care about her cousin in Colorado just to listen to her soft voice like it was some kinda tonic taking my mind off the drink.

There were dudes in the background telling her to hurry up and come back in. She pushed them off, telling them to leave her alone and that she would be a minute and that this is important.

It brought tears to my eyes. Not big, gushing tears, but the stinging kind where your eyes just kind of fill up with water and pain. Because it was obvious her orchid cousin in Colorado was not important but something about this conversation was, to Allison, important.

Seven minutes later she asked if I was okay.

“Yeah. Thanks for making some time for me tonight, Allison. Thanks for talking—”

“Stop saying thanks! I love talking to you, Sam. When you’re not all juiced up. I really do. But my stupid friends are leaving and they’re my ride, so I have to go. Wanna call me again sometime?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. I’d like that. I mean it…Okay?”

“Okay. Bye.”

“Bye, Sam.”

The line went dead. Those stupid tears welled up fierce but I didn’t fight ’em off now. I didn’t push the emotion down cuz it felt safe to sit in that feeling. I kept trying to boil it down to something concrete. Something I could define, what her little sacrifice meant. That moment when she made me more important than her real friends. But I gave up cuz the best I could do was to reduce it to something like love.

Whatever it was, was powerful.

It killed my desire to drink. My need to sit around and wait for Slice.

It killed my fear and empowered my will.

Time was running out. I texted Slice. I needed to get Benny and my files on Josie from the box. And I wasn’t afraid to march back in there and get them.

 

 

Monday, October 12th, 9:44 p.m.

 

I pushed through the door.

I was ready for war. Ready to protect myself from whatever battle lay ahead with Jiles. So long as I was in a public place, at his bar no less, I felt relatively safe.

But he was nowhere to be seen.

The room looked the same. But everything about it tasted different.

The moment I stepped in carrying a bankers box I’d dug up from my place, the Rooster shot me an odd look. Like he knew something.

I stepped his way and he checked his shoulder.

“Word is you’re moving out.”

“Word travels fast.” I grinned. “I haven’t forgot about the money. Just cuz I may not be comin’ back doesn’t mean I’ll flake. Besides. I know you could destroy my life with one stroke of those keys.”

He smiled, like he genuinely appreciated his backdoor power.

“So, I’m planning on paying you. I mean it. I just need to—”

“Not get locked up?”

“Something like that.”

“Just so you know, Jiles was in the box all day. Kept shuffling in and out, shutting the door. All day, in and out.”

“Is he in there now?”

“Don’t think so. I saw him go into his office.”

“Thanks for the heads up. You seen Slice today?”

“No. It’s weird. Haven’t seen him all day.”

“Yeah, that is weird.” I pretended to play along. “Well, I’ll see ya around Rooster.”

The Rooster reached out and touched my back, with some kinda awkward pat, signifying we were something more than just strangers who shared some secrets and a drinking hole. Then he slunk back to his computer and never looked at me again.

I pushed through and made my way back inside the box. When I opened the door, my stomach tightened. Jiles was there, reading something behind the desk.

“Hey. Hope you don’t mind but I’ve been reading some of your research.”

The snake was wise.

I played it off all cool hand Luke as possible. “Nah. I don’t care. I’m all done with it, anyway.”

“Heard that before.” He pointed at the wall. At some pictures of Glenn and Susan Glasser and the map of Glendale and newspaper cutouts of Ullverson’s arrest. Of Max. And Josie. “Girl really set the hook in you, didn’t she?”

My guts twisted as I dropped the box on the table. Pulled out the scraps from the drawers. Old New Yorkers. Gum. Masking tape. All kinds of crap I didn’t need but kept me from looking at the man.

“You really went to town on all this. Reminds me of when I was younger.” He chuckled like it was funny, then got cold fast. “Don’t forget to settle up before you shove off.”

More money. I probably owed Jiles close to five hundred bucks.

“I’m not gonna stiff you, Jiles.” I kept my eyes down but he held up some papers in his hand.

“What is this?”

I took a closer look. It was the list of companies the Rooster had dug up. My empty twelve-hundred-dollar lead.

“Nothin’. Why?”

He stared at the list but then shrugged it off and walked out grumbling. “No reason.”

He disappeared and I stared at all my hard work on the wall.

Then I ripped it down.

Grabbed Benny and went to settle up at the bar.

 

 

Monday, October 12th, 9:58 p.m.

 

Jiles hit me with a bill for $387.22.

More money. More cake I didn’t have.

The number stung as I dropped my box on a stool and plopped down my card. Without saying a word he pinched it up and walked back over to the register. I looked around and caught Lily at a booth, buried in paperwork. She wouldn’t even look at me. Jewels was yappin’ to a couple of drunk, middle-aged dad-looking dudes and Pa was blasted, staring into the mirror.

I was gonna miss this place.

I wondered if they’d even miss me. I mean truly miss me.

Then Slice walked in.

He looked rattled and clocked Jiles a hard look as he found me at the bar.

“Thanks for the call,” I snapped. “Where the hell have you been all day, Slice?”

“Sorry, but I’ve been workin’ on it,” he hissed. “What are you doin here?”

“I texted you. Needed my computer. And my stuff from the box.”

He leaned in. “I talked to my guys. They did some digging.”

“And?”

“And I think you might be right. They tell me Pinner’s been acting squirrely. And apparently Jiles came by the station the other night. He never does that. Somethin’s going on with these two. Something off.”

Jiles was far enough away, running up my card, but still too close for comfort. I tried not to explode.

Even Slice looked uneasy. And weirdly sober. “Let’s talk, outside. I gotta plan. Brought some help, too,” he said.

Jiles returned, waiting for my signature. “Usual, Slice?”

“Nah. I’m not stayin’, gonna see Sammy out.”

Jiles squinted at this bullshit, all confused. The man knew us well enough by now and could tell we were on edge.

As we moved away, Jiles kept a tight eye on our every step out into the night.

 

 

We pushed outside and Slice let loose. According to the brass down at Central some cops were questioning Pinner’s collar. Some of the pieces weren’t adding up. And he said Ullverson changed his plea to not guilty for the third murder. Slice kept rambling as he walked towards a blue Nissan sedan waiting at the curb.

The car was idling, trickling fumes.

“Hop in.”

A guy got out from behind the wheel and smiled at me. I recognized him but couldn’t pin it. He was Latin. Tall. And built like a truck.

“Sam, this is my son, Mario.”

Mario smiled and reached out a hand. “My dad’s told me a lot about you. Great to finally meet ya.”

“Yeah, you, too,” I muttered, surprised to finally lay on eyes on the guy.

“Mario knows a lawyer named Gareth Napier.” Slice kept rambling. “I think I told you about him? Anyway, Napier handles some pretty high-profile cases. We called over and he offered to meet you tonight. Mario’ll introduce you. I think we should lay out what you found for him.”

“Okay. Great. Thanks.”

Mario walked around and slid behind the wheel. All this time, I’d pictured him as a terrified ten-year-old boy all bashed and scarred up. A kid outta Boyle Heights who loved pink lady apples. But he wasn’t that at all now, of course. He looked strong. Powerful. Like he twisted that past into his own body, arming it with muscle so no one would fuck him over ever again.

I hit the back seat and Slice slid in next to me chattering on about the lawyer. We rolled north on San Fernando, soon slipping onto the 134 East.

“Where’s his office?”

“His house,” Slice corrected. “He lives in Pasadena.”

The old coot finally stopped talking and I cracked the window for some air.

The night was cool out. Almost cold for LA.

I watched Mario from the back seat. Kept thinking about the hellhole his life had been before Slice saved the boy. I felt a bit honored to finally meet him as I caught a piece of his steel-toed cowboy boots hitting the brake.

I remembered seeing them before.

Those steel-toed cowboy boots.

I’d seen them before.

Close. In my face.

I racked memories until it all came crashing back in.

On a sidewalk.

My face against the cement.

Those boots.

Those steel-toes smashing my face outside Patriot Strong.

I straight-faced and stared strong at Mario. Swirling.

Mario turned like he felt my eyes. He smiled and I saw his teeth.

And then, I pinned it.

That face. Where I remembered seeing it.

Glasser’s apartment.

Glasser’s drawer.

The picture.

Susan Glasser’s Latin crush.

My mind cracked.

Shit got quiet and time snapped shut.

It all synced up.

Mario Sandoval.

Mario Sandoval was one of Max’s lieutenants.

Mario Sandoval was Glasser’s crush.

Mario Sandoval was Slice’s kid.

Slice.

I stared at the man’s face on the seat next to me.

It was Slice.

All along.

I had the wrong ex-cop.

My heart hammered.

My chest wanted to explode. I was desperate to keep calm but I couldn’t breathe. I pressed down the window button harder, desperate for oxygen.

Air rushed in and both men clocked a look, curious.

“You okay, Sammy?”

My lungs went deep.

“Yeah,” I croaked, trying to piece it all together.

No wonder he brought Mario.

And no way they were taking me to any lawyer.

I pushed through the fear to what the hell am I gonna do when my phone started buzzing in my pocket. Slice glanced over as I pulled it out to see who was calling.

It was The Damned Lovely.

With his eyes all over me, I accepted the call and pressed it to my ear.

“Hello?”

“Sam, it’s Jiles,” he said. “I meant to tell you before you slipped out tonight but, when I was in the box today, saw that list of companies you had printed out. I kept going over it in my mind, and couldn’t square it but that one company, Global Road? Pretty sure that’s Slice’s kid’s company. Mario’s.” He trailed off, ready for me to respond with something like wow but I just stuck my eyes on the floor, listening to the dead air, trying to play it all through in my head. “You there?”

“Yeah.”

“He used the bar’s address and I remember calling him out on it when we got their junk mail. Stupid regulars act like it’s their second home. Anyway. Just thought to tell you.”

Jiles was too late. I was spinning out, racking theory. Mario was the missing piece. Glasser’s boy toy was probably using her to steal from Backyard Dreams and laundering money to Patriot Strong. I just never made the connect cuz I remembered that owner was listed as M.N. Sandoval. Josie must have traced the company’s address, which was why she was at the bar. Why she was soaking it all in and staying quiet. She probably thought it was Jiles, just as I did, when the whole time it was Slice.

When this whole time it was Slice.

“Got it. Thanks.”

“…Okay.” Jiles sounded disappointed. Like this should’ve been important. Or like he felt guilty for kicking me to the curb.

He hung up.

I could feel Slice staring at me, as I prayed the air screaming through the open window had drowned out Jiles’s voice.

“Who was that?”

“Jiles. I forgot my credit card at the bar. We need to go back.”

“We can get it after. We’re almost there.”

I stared at the downtown lights shimmering in the distance.

I had to get out.

I thought about opening the door and rolling out of the car on the highway. Then I thought about my skull and skin smashing the concrete at seventy miles per hour.

Slice kept talking about this lawyer, Napier. But I knew we weren’t going to any lawyer’s house. We were going somewhere ugly.

Mario tagged in and started up about my article on his father. How well I’d captured his spirit. I smiled and pretended to be thankful when really, I was still just trying to breathe, gaming out some kind of escape.

The car finally peeled off the 134 and rolled through the lights at the Rosemead exit. We hit the city streets and my guts got tighter with one green light after another. We hit a stop sign and in one single motion, I unclicked my seat belt and cranked the door handle, jumping free as the car started up, tripping me hard onto the cold cement. I rolled clear of the vehicle and with my heart pounding, got to my feet and ran as fast as I could.

Mario hit the brakes.

I charged down the open street and saw a red Mercedes with a woman driving, craning her neck, terrified at the sight of me coming at her full tilt.

I screamed, “Hellllppp!” but she hit the gas and sped away from the California crazy and I could hear footsteps behind me.

Mario was baring down like a bull.

I kept running, looking for an out, a save, an anything and aimed for a residential house that had a path with white daisies leading up to the front door. The lights were on and I crashed onto the front porch, smashing the doorbell furiously, pounding that door hard. I pulled out my phone and punched in my code, forgetting entirely about the whole emergency call thing and saw Mario coming at me.

The Damned Lovely popped up from my last call and I hit send.

Background noise clicked on, and I started wailing, “It’s Sam! I’m with Slice. It’s Slice! It’s fucking Slice and his son! They’re coming after me—”

But Mario slammed me HARD into the front door and the phone fell to the ground, smashing the screen to pieces as pain ripped up through my spine. I crumbled under his weight and my head buckled off the wall. I flailed my fists around like they might do some good, but Mario thundered a punch into my kidneys, dropping me to the ground. He picked my body off the ground and dragged me away. He had me by the shoulders in a wrenching headlock, dragging me by my skull and hair, up to my feet and back towards the car like he was used to this kind of thing.

The door of the house finally opened and his arm tightened around my throat, crunching my airway as he bellowed to a confused Pasadena old-timer. “Sorry, sir. My buddy got drunk and your house reminded him of his ex-wife’s place.”

The man squinted uneasy but was happy to see us stepping away.

“I’ve got him under control, now. Sorry again,” Mario assured the man who closed the door as I gasped for air.

He hauled me back to the car and stood me up against the trunk.

Slice was there now. Staring at me. Staring at his son.

“Jiles knows,” I squawked. “He knows about Mario. Glasser. Global Road…anything happens to me, he’ll chase it…it’ll all come out, Slice.”

Slice and Mario shared a tight look.

Then, Mario slammed his fist into my skull.

 

 

Monday, October 12th, 11:41 p.m.

 

I woke up.

I woke up cold and in the dirt. On a boulevard somewhere that still looked like Pasadena. My head wailed.

But I was breathing. Alive. And it all felt beautiful.

I walked along the street angling for somewhere busy, somewhere I could make a call cuz they had taken my phone.

I found a Del Taco a few blocks up. Buried myself in the bathroom and washed my face off.

I hit up a cashier named Georgina and asked if I could use her phone. She looked uneasy and I didn’t blame her. I told her it was important and she bought it. I called the only number I knew off by heart in LA.

A few seconds later, the barkeep picked up.

 

 

Tuesday, October 13th, 12:34 a.m.

 

Jiles pulled up outside the Del Taco and I said thanks to Georgina. Told her she was a lifesaver and the girl smiled precious. I meant it.

When I got in the car Jiles didn’t say much. Just looked heavy and patted my shoulder.

Then we drove in silence.

 

 

Tuesday, October 13th, 12:48 a.m.

 

When we pulled up outside of Slice’s house, the pain in my head got sucked into my stomach, burning bad with nerves. I looked around and didn’t see Mario’s car.

Jiles caught my eye.

“If he wanted to hurt you, he woulda done that by now,” he said. “We’re just gonna talk to him, straighten this out.”

Then the old man pulled a .38 from under his seat, got outta the car, and jammed it into the small of his back. It should’ve been cool but the sight of the pistol only made my stomach burn harder.

As we approached the front door, we could see Slice sitting in his living room, with his back to the street. And us.

He looked stone cold, in a daze almost.

Jiles didn’t knock. He pressed open the lock and stepped in like he’d probably done a hundred times before. But I could see Jiles clearing the corners with his eyes as we moved into the living room. Slice stared blankly with dead eyes at his wall of history as a cop. His glory days. And the man had a deep drink in his hand.

“You all alone?”

“Mario’s gone. For good,” Slice said. “He stays outta this.”

The air was tight, but Slice looked soft, like a wounded animal now.

Jiles kept his eyes on the old man.

“They killed Josie,” I said out loud.

Slice didn’t say anything when I laid out the pieces. That it was Mario who was using Susan Glasser to ply money out from Backyard Dreams to his buddies at Patriot Strong.

“You got any evidence, kid?”

I nodded and Jiles almost looked proud. Like I’d done something right for once.

Slice kept silent.

Jiles looked dark.

“You kill this girl?”

Slice kept silent.

“You kill this girl, Greg?”

I’d never heard Jiles call Slice by his real name, but I could feel the anger swelling inside the ex-cop.

“He raped her, too.”

Slice still wouldn’t say anything. He didn’t protest. He looked broken. Disgraced.

Then finally, he looked at Jiles and said once again, “Mario stays out of it.”

Jiles pulled out his phone and called Pinner. Told him get over to us now. He didn’t need to explain and just hung up.

“You want to beat the shit out of him, Sam? I can turn around. Or help.”

I stared at Slice. This man I had trusted. Looked up to. Envied. This man who was the true source for so much pain in my life. Then I thought about Josie. Those final moments he must’ve had with her. The pain he caused her. Ripping off that girl’s clothes and forcing himself inside her terrified, beautiful body. Wrapping his hands around her soft throat, crushing the air out of that throat. This man, standing right in front of me.

It wasn’t anger. It was more pain and sadness.

I didn’t want to hit him. I wanted him to look me in the eye. See the hurt. But he never did.

It wasn’t long before Pinner blustered through the door. The cop picked up the scent in the room fast.

Saw the hate in Jiles.

The disgrace on Slice.

I stepped out the pieces. Laid the track for the cop as simply as I could.

After he was convinced, I expected Pinner to walk Slice out, but these men had other plans.

“Leave him with us, Sam,” Jiles said. “We’ll handle it.”

They weren’t asking. And for the first time I saw terror bleed through Slice.

Jiles handed over his keys. “I’ll meet ya back at the bar.”

I moved my feet and legs and pounding heart and made for the door. But I needed one more take. One more look at the monster. So I turned around and stared at Slice and those men standing over him as they closed the door when it all came back. What Jiles told me. About cops who cross the line and betray their own.

 

We decide.

Sometimes they go quiet.

Sometimes they don’t.

Sometimes it’s up to us to close it out.

 

 

Tuesday, October 13th, 1:21 a.m.

 

I sat down at the bar. Gutted. Swirling.

The place still had a few slugs hanging on.

The room twisted around me. Faces. Drinks. Smiles. Brassy soul music. Like any other night. Like no other night before. I don’t remember talking to anyone. I don’t remember much after that, I only remember someone placing a Bulleit in front of me at the bar.

And I remember taking my second sip.

 

 

Friday, October 16th, 3:19 p.m.

 

There were no headlines.

No breaking news.

No break in the case fun.

Life went back to the same old spin.

Jiles floated me some cash.

Glasser dropped the charges.

Lily waived her fees.

Pa kept drinking.

The Rooster stared at his screen in the corner.

Jewels brave-faced it with a pretty smile.

I wrote a thing. A real novel this time. With pieces of my heart on the page.

Ullverson took the rap.

Mario skated clean.

And Slice vanished.

 

 

Tuesday, October 20th, 3:19 p.m.

 

They found his body four days later. He put a bullet through his head behind a motel off the 10 outside of Banning. Officially, they said.

He didn’t leave a note.

Word ripped through the bar. Shock and tears.

What the hell happened?

Jewels cried. Pa racked numb. Even Lily cracked.

The Times buried the news deep in the folds. The LAPD kept mum.

When’s the service? How’s Mario holding up?

Jiles deflected. For weeks. But Lily and Jewels couldn’t take it. They leaned on him to close the bar and pay respects.

To do the right thing for their friend.

Jiles caved. Probably to soothe something deep inside his heart, so he closed the bar early. We sat around tossing tales of Slice into the night. The good, the bad, and the lies. We raised a glass to the fallen soldier.

Jiles and I kept quiet. Playing the part. Volleying the truth behind our eyes back and forth like a dirty secret.

The place would never be the same, they said.

 

 

About a month later, Allison walked into the bar. I hadn’t reached out to her since that night with Slice. Since she talked me off the ledge.

She seemed excited to see me. Less excited seeing the bourdon in my hand. I offered to buy her a drink but she declined, straddling the stool next to me.

“How ya been?”

I could smell her skin and remembered how much I liked her.

We shuffled small talk and she seemed genuinely curious about where the hell I’d been. Why I hadn’t returned her texts. Trying to get the story.

I deflected with a grin.

She said I looked good.

I told her she looked better.

“Your orchid came back.”

“It’s really nice to see you, Allison.”

“You’re drinking again.”

“I am drinking again. But I’m better, trust me.” And I was in a way, not that I could tell her.

She looked around the joint, unconvinced. Like the place still disappointed her, just as it had the day we first met here.

“I think you can do better with your life, Sam.”

I thought about Josie’s bloodied shirt buried quiet in my desk. In the box, behind that door. I looked around the rest of the bar. I saw Jiles grumbling to Jewels about a customer. I saw Pa with his frosted Beefeater glee. The Rooster watching wise from the corner. And Lily glancing from afar, sipping rum, working a file, eyeing me like a raven or a mother or something. I’d always thought Jiles called this place The Damned Lovely cuz of the booze. But I wasn’t so sure, anymore, seeing these faces.

So I smiled at my drink and stared at Allison’s beautiful face.

“Yeah. Maybe you’re right.”

 

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