Fifteen minutes after the phone call, a white panel van threaded its way through the traffic towards us. Two dark skinned men sat in the front, the passenger was scanning the sidewalk with a little too much concentration for my comfort.
I stepped to the curb, when the man in van saw me he froze for the briefest moment, but it was long enough for me to know it was me he was looking for.
“This is wrong, let’s go,” I told Mikayla as I rushed past her. I heard tires squealing as we rounded the corner. Over my shoulder, the white van skidded through traffic. At the next corner, I turned up a one way street. It was going the opposite direction.
The van slid to a stop and four men jumped out of the side door. They were dressed in jeans and windbreakers and looked Middle Eastern.
We had a block lead when we hit Broadway. The crush of quitting traffic slowed the streets to a crawl and flooded the sidewalks. I plowed through the pedestrians with Mikayla running in my wake. A red Metro sign glowed ahead of us. Swinging down the stairs, I pushed my way down into the subway. We hit the red line just as the train pulled in. We were swept into the car with the swarm of commuters. As the train pulled away, I saw the dark skinned men moving on the platform, searching the crowd for us.
When we hit the dark of the tunnel, I looked at the map to see where we were headed. Hollywood, that would do fine. Any place with crowds to get lost in.
“What did we do to piss off the Arabs?” I asked Mikayla as we stood rumbling along.
“Israeli, I think they were Israeli,” she said.
“If you say so. Why are they after us?”
“I don’t know.” She was hiding something.
“Have anything to do with that whorehouse fire in Tel Aviv Peter was talking about?”
“Maybe.” She didn’t elaborate.
“Any other baggage you want to tell me about? Mexicans, Russians, Israelis… anyone else want to kill you? What about the Canadians, you ever do anything to them?” People in the car were starting to stare. I didn’t care.
“You know who I am. You know what I do,” she said softly.
By the time we reached the Highland station, my adrenaline had eased up enough for me to think a bit more clearly. Moving through the happy tourists in front of Grauman’s Chinese Theater felt completely surreal. A towhead boy put his feet over Bogart’s cement footprints while his mother snapped a picture. I winced with every flash bulb, reminded of the guns in the borderland. Mikayla took it all in with her same stoic calmness.
I found a cab in front of the Roosevelt Hotel, gave the driver an address in North Hollywood. I spent the entire ride watching for white vans and black Mercedes, LA had never looked less like home.
“Where the fuck is my truck?” Jason B was not a happy camper to see me walk up without the Scout. The cabby had been convinced to take the last of our US dollars and a small stack of pesos, he let us off up the block from Jason B’s shop. I had left Mikayla on the street, no need for Jason B to see her with me.
“Gone.”
“Gone? Gone? Forty grand’s worth of rolling stock, and all you can say is ‘gone’?”
“I need the Crown Vic.”
“How the fuck are you planning to pay for this destruction? You got cash? Didn’t think so. Fuck!”
“You know I’m good for it.” I was trying to remain calm.
“No, what I know is you look like a fucking bum on his last bad run. What I know is I’m out a primo ride worth a wedge of cash and now you want another car. Do I look like your bitch? You see a dress on me?” Spittle flew from his lips.
“Go get my keys before I forget I like you.” I kept my eyes flat and my voice even.
“You threatening me?” He was trying to keep his bravado up, but I could see a crack of fear appearing under it.
“It’s been a rough couple days, one more body won’t dent my karma one way or the other, so get my keys.”
“Alright, big man, chill, I know you’re good for it.” He reached into his desk drawer. I grabbed the drawer, pinning his hand inside it. He let out a small yelp. With one hand locked on his wrist, I opened the drawer; in his hand was a Beretta 9mm. He looked up at me with a sheepish grin. I backhanded him hard enough to knock him off his chair.
“Deal remains the same,” I said, towering over him. “I take my car, I will make good on the Scout.”
He was finished, tail between his legs. He found the keys and led me to the Crown Vic. “I tuned her up, and she has a full tank.” His eyes wouldn’t meet mine.
“I’ll see you around, Jason.” Climbing behind the wheel, it felt good to be back in the road beast.
On the street, I picked up Mikayla and drove to a liquor store to make a call. Gregor was still not answering his cell and there was no answer at his mother’s. We drove to Glendale without speaking. I slipped Dropkick Murphys into the stereo, Celtic punk to take my mind off worrying.
If they had gotten to Gregor, they would have his house under surveillance. I parked two streets away from the pre-war court and we worked our way across backyards. Mikayla must have felt my tension, the razor was in her hand. The front door to Gregor’s mother’s cottage was splintered at the jamb. Gripping the Beretta, I pushed the door open. The living room was a mess, the coffee table had been upended, a china hutch lay on its side, spilling out a broken teacup collection. The bedroom was empty and untouched. There were more signs of struggle in the kitchen, plates with half-eaten breakfast were scattered on the floor. Under the table was a smear of blood, bullet holes pocked the floor.
“No, no, no, no.” I stared at the blood stain.
Mikayla picked up a spent 9mm shell, reading the imprint on the bottom, “IMI, Israeli military.”
“Israelis? FUCK. I don’t give a fuck if they’re Martians. They’re dead men.” A smeared trail of blood ran out the back door. We followed the scuffed brown tracks across the small yard and into the garage.
Folded up behind a dented Toyota, I found them. An elderly woman curled up, holding a bloody Bullmastiff. She covered her face. Guarding from the blow she was sure was coming.
Dropping to my knees, I clutched Angel, burying my face in her blood stiff fur. She was warm and I could feel her chest pulling shallow breaths. Her eyes rolled open, looked up at me, begging me for relief.
Mikayla helped Gregor’s mother gently to her feet. All the blood on her was Angel’s. While I held the dog, feeling for her wounds, I heard them speaking. When Gregor had seen the strangers coming, he had sent his mother out the back and told her to hide. That nice Russian girl had been in the shower. The old woman had heard gunshots and screaming. She obeyed her son and stayed hidden. Late in the night, she had crept into the house and found the dog. Gregor would come for them. He always did. She had been hiding all night and all day. She knew he would come for her.
“Who the heck has been using a beautiful bitch like this for target practice?” Bernie was a cross-dressing vet I had met in Lebanon. I had saved his ass, literally. He owed me. He was a good man for a freak. He’d keep his mouth shut.
“Don’t let her die.”
“She’s not looking real good.”
“Just don’t let her die.”
We took Gregor’s mom to a sister’s house in the Valley and promised to have Gregor call her. She didn’t ask me to save her son, she assumed he wouldn’t need it. She believed in him that deeply.
Driving back down the 5, I tried to quiet the rage and think.
“Can you turn that noise off?” Mikayla asked, lighting a butt.
“No. It relaxes me.” The Clash’s
