A Good-Looking Corpse (19 page)

“Are you taking me to pick up my work truck?” I ask Crozier as we leave the garage and turn out onto Angeleno Avenue.

“What the fuck do I look like? A taxi? You're lucky I'm heading in the direction of your shitty little apartment.”

“So you've been inside, huh?”

“Stole a pair of your girl's panties too.” Crozier mimics smelling them.

“I'm glad you told me,” I say. “I was worried I was starting to like you.”

“Oh, I'll always have a place in your heart.” He grins that toothy grin of his.

“Near my heart,” I remind him.

“I'm gonna feed that heart to my dogs when we're done with it. It'll be like a dessert, but I like to spoil 'em every now and again.”

“Aww, if you want to spoil them, maybe don't pit them against each other,” I point out.

“You want to find out who really appreciates life, you gotta test them with death sometimes.” Crozier shrugs. “You just learned that lesson.”

“These Bentleys, they're pretty expensive, huh?” I say, switching modes.

“Fuck yeah, they is,” Crozier agrees. “They come loaded with shit, shit I don't even need. I don't know what half these switches do.”

“It's pretty sturdy too, right?”

“Bitch could stop a tank,” he says and pats the steering wheel appreciatively.

“It's a nice day, yeah? Can we do windows over the AC?”

“Hah, you want that fresh air, huh? Alright, my man, I'm game.” Crozier hits the air-conditioner button, killing the breeze. I roll my window down, pushing it all the way into the door. Crozier does likewise, but stops his window halfway.
Like a perfect guillotine
.

As we pull up toward the red light at North Hollywood Way, nobody is in front of us and I scan the intersection quickly, looking at the cars moving west. My heart is racing, searching out something solid. Crozier's foot is still on the accelerator, but he's easing it off, about to hit the brakes. I need his foot to stay on the accelerator pedal for this to work. A semi, big and loaded down with a trailer is racing to beat the yellow light, heading straight for the intersection. I touch the top of my safety buckle, making sure I'm belted in. Crozier, sensing that if he times it correctly he can roll through on the fresh green without having to completely stop, shifts his foot to the brakes, taps them, once, twice and then moves back to the accelerator, anticipating. It's the move I need. Mashing both my hands down on his knee, I catch the big black man by surprise with the move and the car leaps forward, obeying.

“Motherfucker!” he snarls, screaming it, not sure if to push me back, reach for his gun, or yank the wheel. The uncertainty costs him, not that he could have reacted fast enough anyhow as the powder-blue luxury whip-speeds out into the intersection. The semi driver, corralled in the second lane, can only yank his air horn in anticipation of the crash. With less than a second to impact, I release Crozier's leg, against the deafening warning blast from the driver of the big truck. “Mother—” is all Crozier can say as the Bentley's frame explodes around us, decimating the left side of the car at the driver's seat. The air bags go off around us, insulating our side impact, but the physics hold and both our bodies are jerked violently toward the impact. I don't have time to look, as my body is rag-dolled by the hit, but there is a brilliant burst of thick red pulp that splatters me and the innards of the car as a liberal portion of the side of Crozier's face is dissected violently by his window. Brain matter, fragmented into a spongy wet blast, tumbles down as I am banged back and forth against my air bags, having no choice but to receive the red stew against me, bathing me in the man's life fluids. What's left of the now-bisected portion of his face, basically part of his nose and his lips, spews a mess of spinal juice and blood forward, remaking the air bags on his side into a mangled, carmine horror show. I gasp for oxygen, the air bags having forced the wind from me, and bounce back into alertness.

Though I heard nothing in the moments immediately following the collision, sound emerges through the silence—horns, screaming people, and cars squealing to a hard stop. I don't have time to wallow in my own shock though; I have to get out of the car. The frame is bent, but my door still functionally tumbles open, as I release my seat belt and spill out, unsteadily, from the wreckage. People are just now getting to us, several of them with cellphones that they are quickly converting to video mode. I keep my head down, moving through the attempted embraces of my would-be heroes. “Check the truck driver,” I yell, but the man, a wide-eyed Latino, is already climbing out of his truck, unassisted. “What happened?” he yells to everyone approaching, as a crowd begins to form around the scene, eager to offer their expert opinion or try to save Crozier's life. “Not my fault,” the driver follows up with quickly. As they reach the ruined Bentley behind me, I hear one man retch and then another, as they glimpse the horror I just endured. I do not look back, but beg the people who are moving toward me to “Save my friend, please!” They move on, now focused on what they can do to help the situation and I am forgotten.

“You need help,” a woman screams at me, but I do not feel injured by the crash, only discombobulated, possibly a minor concussion.

“Not my blood,” I reassure her. “I need to sit.” Fortunately, the early camera crowd, eager to be the first to either sell their gruesome footage or post it to the Internet, have their cameras trained fully on the wreck. I wipe what blood I can as I go, but my white polo is stained across the left side, its shoulder fabric spattered with bits of Crozier's ruptured skull.
That won't be going on Mikey's shelf
, I think wryly, and the morbid humor is a good indication that I am not concussed. People keep arriving at the scene, running out of their shops, abandoning their cars in the road to bear witness to the most exciting part of their afternoon.

“Where you going, buddy?” a man yells after me, but I wave limply to acknowledge him and in deciding between me and checking out the crash, he chooses the crash, moving toward it instead, as if worried he will lose out on his chance to be a hero…or possibly to capture some footage on his smartphone.

I clear the ring of first responders and move on to make my way past the meekly curious.

“What happened?” a frail woman with a bag from a bakery asks, looking at the crash and not me.

“No clue,” I deadpan, despite being covered in blood. My goal is to be long gone before the cops arrive to make their own speculations on the incident. I cut through a gas station and two more parking lots, weaving, moving quicker now, more steady on my own feet. As I go, I take off my shirt, flipping it inside out to hide the blood as much as possible, while mopping at my face. Even though the fabric's a collected mess of skin, bone flecks, blood, and soupy discharge, I don't dare toss it away. Though several people saw my blood-painted features as I limped past them, it is hopefully what was left of Crozier that sticks with them when they offer their accounts of the drama to the police. I will ideally be a sketched-up composite of several different opinions when they show my likeness on the evening news, a poor rendering of my actual appearance, speculated upon and then all too quickly forgotten.
It's all too easy to get swept into the vast, never-ending cycle of Los Angeles's miseries and effectively disappear.

I move to side streets, making my way across the increasingly familiar suburbs of Burbank. Here they have not heard the crash, have not yet heard sirens, and will have little cause to pay attention to the gaunt shirtless man carrying a bunched-up red flag of some sort. And even if they do notice me, gathering a protracted view, no police will likely ask them. My street into my apartment complex is quiet. All the wannabe actors we play neighbor to are apparently busing tables or sleeping off the effects of a pot brownie.

I make my way into the common area, around the pool and then to my apartment where the door is mercifully unlocked.

“Have you seen my red thong?” Ivy yells from the bedroom, hearing me walk in the door. “I can't find it anywhere. I swear, once I have this baby, all the rest of my thongs are going away too. Granny panties, sweatpants, and ice-cream sandwiches for this mom.”

“We gotta talk,” I say, intense from the living room.

“I was just kidding,” she volunteers quickly. “I'll be a sexy mom, a MILF, I promise.” She stops short when she sees me. “Fuuuuudge, what happened to your shirt?”

“Long day,” I mutter and move into the kitchen where I drop the ruined shirt into the sink with a splat.

“Is that blood on you?” she asks, authentically worried.

“Not mine,” I promise.

“From a crime scene?” She wrinkles her nose in disgust, as if maybe I'd had a roll in the blood on a lark.

“It's Crozier's blood. I just killed Crozier.”

“What? Tom! You can't go around killing people to solve your problems, no matter what they are! That just makes for a worse problem. And now you've told me, which makes me an accomplice! I can't be one of those women who has a baby in jail!”

“You won't be.” I make a move to comfort her, but she backs away. I want to believe it's because of the blood. “And I had no choice this time. These people—Detective Chong was right—there's only one way you can deal with them.”

“What about Ramen? I thought he was going to help you take down Mikey Echo without anyone dying?”

“There is no Ramen—Ramen
is
Mikey Echo,” I persist, feeling myself needing to get her back on board with me.

“What does that even mean?” she asks, beginning to form frustrated tears in the corners of her eyes.

“I found out last night. This has all been a giant con, a giant mind-fuck. I was going to tell you, but Ramen—Mikey—found out and now he wants me to kill his dad.”

“I tried to tell you! I knew there was something bigger!”

“I know. I should have listened. I will listen to you more going forward. If I survive all this.”

“Survive all what? You're not going to do it, are you?”

“Mikey put me in a situation. I don't know what I'm going to do.”

“You can warn George Echo for one!”

“There's more though.”

“I don't know if I can handle more,” Ivy says, her mascara mixing with the moisture to create black tears running down her face.

“You shouldn't have to, I know. This is all my fault. I created this mess.” I go to wipe some sweat from my brow, but find it is blood. “I put my new office squarely on the Sureño Lowriders turf. I did it because I wanted to find them, to kill them.”

“Tom, do you realize what you're telling me?”

“I know! I know how it sounds. It's bad. And I should have told you sooner, but…something inside me…I wanted to make them pay for what they did to my boss.”

“Have you…hurt anyone else?” she asks.

“No.” I shake my head, vigorous. “I promise. And I only hurt—killed Crozier because he was going to kill me. But now the Sureños are onto me too. And I want it all over with. But I don't know how I can just walk away.”

“You realize this isn't just you you're doing this to…you're doing it to
us
.”

“I'm not great at being in a relationship,” I falter.

“No fucking shit!” Ivy yells. “No fucking shit.”

“I need help,” I say, taking a step toward her. For her part, she does not back away this time. “I need you to help me get through this.”

“Can we go to the police? Please?” she begs.

“Not this time. They're powerless against Mikey. And they won't be able to do anything except put a restraining order on the Sureños…that won't do anything.”

“So what's left? What are our options?”

“Right now, I need you to trust me,” I say, deciding. “I've got to get us out of this mess. You and me. And this little thing here,” I add, putting my hand on her stomach, leaving a slight red outline there.

“You know I do trust you, Tom,” Ivy says, “but I'm worried about what this all means.”

“I would never let anyone hurt you.
Never.
” I don't step forward again, instead giving her the space she needs. “I don't know that I can solve the mental shit yet. But I think I can at least slam my two physical problems together. And I think I can do it without you or me getting hurt in the process.”

“That sounds good,” she says, wiping the mascara tears, streaking them across her face. She takes a step back toward me, a small one. “God, we're so fucked up, aren't we?”

“We are.” I nod. “But I think we're getting better.”

The gun, still loaded, tucks uneasily into the waistband of my black slacks, and I pull my white T-shirt over it to suppress the handle. It still looks bulky and obtuse, an obvious indication that I am stashing something. But in this neighborhood, it is best to let the natives know I am packing. Climbing out and around to the back of my car, searching out prying eyes, I see nothing on this late Monday morning. It doesn't mean no one is watching—neighborhoods like these have mastered the art of seeing everything. I add a faded zippered hoodie from my truck to the mix, pulling the sweatshirt's hood down low over my eyes. It's hot for a sweatshirt, but a white guy will stick out less in this neighborhood if he looks like an oblivious junkie. I begin my deliberate trek toward the clubhouse, adding a sort of meandering sway to my step—just a whacked-out tweaker in search of fresh crystal. The house seems innocent enough up close, pale green exterior, shingled roof, the little plots of grass a mix of dying and dead blades, yellow and tan through the black metal fence with its tarnished spikes. They're just a little too spiky to climb over, so I continue on, seeking movement inside the house from side glances. There is nothing, but I continue my sway past the gate and onward, up the sidewalk toward the next house. Tall unpainted fences separate the front yard from the back, obscuring my view, but there is an alleyway behind these houses and I decide it's my best bet.

I reach the corner, counting three houses away from my target. Far above, a hawk circles, also in search of a meal. Am I a hawk or a meal now, I wonder. I'm just a block away from my car, but it's an impossible distance now if shit goes off. Dropping the druggie act, I make my way quickly to the alley and back down it, stopping at the boxy garage door of the Sureños' clubhouse. The same weathered unpainted fencing extends here as well, with a gate that has been padlocked closed. The fence is too tall to see over, so I glance around once more ensuring that no one is actively clocking my movements. The world on both sides of the fence is cemetery silent. I steel my reserve, nervous and sweating buckets into the lining of my hoodie. “You were never gonna live forever, Tom,” I remind myself. Easing myself up onto a boxy city-issued trashcan outside the fence, one that has been graffitied to hell with indecipherable symbols tagged atop one another into a mess of obfuscated nothing, I wait for the plastic lid to dimple beneath my weight. When it does, I rise slowly, lifting my frame so my eyes can peer into the backyard.

Empty, the backyard is a tidy square-shaped ode to normal SoCal living. The only indicators that any ruckus occurs here are a well-spattered iron barbecue grill missing its top half and the city-issued recycling bin, also missing its top and nearly full of empty bottles and cans. The grass back here is less mowed, but trampled down from countless parties. Beyond that, the back door stands above two small concrete steps and a screen, meant to keep bugs out, has been tied open from a knotted length of twine. The twin windows on either side of the door have their shades drawn, half-closed, giving the back of the house a sort of exhausted look to it. There's still no movement to be seen, but that means nothing now.

I'd been to my office extra early this morning, nervously circling, looking for signs of a Sureño Lowrider watchman. Cruising the blocks several times, I'd scanned rooftops and the entranceways of stores. Fortunately, most businesses were still closed and their protective metal roll-top doors were down and locked, offering little in the way of hiding places to an SL spotter on the lookout for me. When I was certain I was all alone, I parked, pulling the Charger close to the front door. The eyes of Mikey's movie billboard stared down at me in silent judgment, still angry.
Perhaps it knows what I'm up to?
I thought. It was to my benefit now that the work truck was still in the police impound lot. It was one less thing to worry about.
For the time being,
Trauma-Gone is effectively closed for business
.

I'd loaded anything into my car that was irreplaceable or expensive—my computer, my work crate, camera, power tools, and any relevant paperwork from the desk. Fortunately, all the biohazard I'd collected during the previous week had been picked up on Friday. There was nothing left in the garage but some empty metal drums and my overstock of cleaning supplies. Everything would go into storage to wait out the forthcoming war. And if I died…it wouldn't matter anyhow. Trauma-Gone could die with me.

Finally, before locking the doors to the space, I wrote a simple note and left it taped to the window of the front door: “We've Moved.” I didn't think it would be a deterrent for what I imagined Coco and his boys would do, but it was a sturdy brick building. It would withstand their rage.

This is for Harold
, I remind myself and vault up and over the fence, my feet landing lightly on the barbecue grill. I watch the windows, anticipating movement but there is only silence and so I drop down, continuing. A thump near the roofline surprises me and I halt, but it is only a rodent-like brown bird making its way out of its unseen nest. It goes flapping skyward and I scan quickly for the hawk to make its move, but the skyline above is empty and the little bird gets to live a little longer.

I fix my eyes on the back door, moving to it, traversing the broken grass on the tips of my toes. It worries me that when I heard the thump from the bird, my hands didn't instinctively reach for the gun in my waistband.
I've got to be better than that
.

Up the steps and at the door, I pull the gun now. It's me or them from here on out—jail isn't an option. Sliding the fingers of my free hand back into the loose sleeve of the hoodie, I use the cloth to grip the door. If the cops come looking for a shooter, they'll graphite the hell out of any surface anyone might have touched. It's my goal that my fingerprints don't come up. The knob turns almost too easily and the back door sails open, no squeaks…just like my own place.
They've got pride of ownership in their clubhouse—I respect that.
I rest the door, sitting open, quietly against a washing machine to my right. The space is small, built before washing machines were commonplace and the door doesn't fully open.
That must be a pain at parties
, I think. Beyond the narrow space is the kitchen. It's empty.

I move on, my feet seeking out the strong points in the floor so as not to make the beams beneath the '50s-era tile squeak. The house was sturdily built though, and the floor holds as I edge forward, ears straining for anything. The counters, tiled with ceramic, are clean, but the faint residue of dirtier times remains streaked and stained across their surface. A small table with an ancient blue diner booth sits to one side, also empty of contents.

The dining room beyond looks carpeted, for which I am thankful. My own steps are too loud for my taste and I keep the pistol extended in front of me now, safety off, ready to fire. Dropping it down to my waist, at the entry arch, I poke my head out to surveil the dining room. It's an open space that feeds into the living room. No talking, no surprises so far. Missing a table, with the giant green banner of the Sureño Lowriders hanging proudly across the wall.
Well, now I'm certain I'm in the right place
.

The kitchen extends too far out though, and all I can see of the front room's space is the backside of a couch perpendicular to the front door. Another flag adorns the wall there. The dead bolt on the front entry is thrown, I note, relieved. The seconds will count if someone comes in, and I will at least be able to hear the keys or the lock.
I hope
.

I take one last breath in the safety of the kitchen and step out into the dining room sideways, facing the living room, the handgun once more raised. And then I see them.

Two thugs—boys, really, still teens, are splayed out across the mismatched long couches in the living room. Both are asleep—or passed out, judging by the 40s of King Cobra sitting empty on the floor before them. Another chair, empty, has been forced into the space surrounding a television unit that blocks an unnecessary fireplace. The TV screen is on, silently awaiting direction on a videogame, its action paused at the “Game Over” screen.

I watch the two of them, my pistol aimed, ready to spit fire, but neither of them moves. I don't know what to do here—the two are small, both smaller than me, their arms free of distinguishing tattoos and it appears they're only groupies. I see no weapons, only game controllers tucked into their mitts. Exhaling, I allow myself a glance toward the short length of hallway to my right.

Looking back, the boys haven't moved.
What are you going to do?
I ask myself and then remember there wasn't exactly a plan to begin with. Everything has been impulse. Disruption is my goal. I want the Lowriders to know they are vulnerable as well. With that as my mantra, I lean into the floorboards, forcing one to groan, keeping the gun aimed. They don't even stir. I relax slightly, relieved. My fight isn't with them anyway…not yet, at least. I decide to keep going, moving on into the clubhouse, but keeping my piece aimed in their direction. In the squat length of hallway, I have four doors to choose from, all closed.

I try the first and it opens slowly, giving a sharp crack at the top as the paint rubs against the framework. A bathroom. It too is maintained and tidy. The shower curtain is even drawn across the length of the tub to prevent mildew. Ivy would do well to learn some cleaning tips from the Lowriders.
It's all jailhouse discipline
, I realize. The higher-ups in the Lowriders likely learned the importance of cleanliness in prison. I too had been schooled in keeping a well-made cot and living quarters, but I'd learned those lessons earlier, from my parents—that too had been a prison of sorts though.

I don't bother closing the bathroom door. At this point it doesn't matter what I do; it's all part of the message. The next doorway enters into a bedroom. The full-size bed is unoccupied, with an emerald-green bra hanging off one end of its headboard. Above the bed is the flag of Mexico, and around it, assorted thongs are staked to the wall like bugs in an entomologist's exhibit. Beneath the length of the black covers, I spy an AK-47, clip in, lying at the ready on the floor. I tuck the pistol back into my waist and retrieve the machine gun. Having been caught knowing jack shit about weapons the last time around, I've spent the past few months becoming more savvy. I slide the safety down to center on the receiver, setting it to fully automatic. It's a nasty-looking weapon. Unable to control myself, I turn quick to a large wall mural spray-painted behind me, a voluptuous Latina on her hands and knees, ass up, as she smiles demurely back at me. I pretend to blast across the wall, keeping my finger securely off the trigger. In spite of my situation, I smile, liking the weighted feel of my new weapon.

The moment over, I refocus and search the bedside drawers, using my sleeve once again to open them. As expected, an impressive array of loose condoms is at the ready for this pussy crusher. A single photograph is in there along with an assortment of weed pipes. I glance at the photo, not recognizing the thug or the motherly woman in it. Toward the back, in front of a dick pump, a twist-tied baggie of heroin sits, dusty tan in color, beckoning to me. I feel myself salivate at the thought of it and snatch it up too, desperate to reassure myself that it's only part of my disruption process. I tuck it into my pocket and abandon the drawer. Part of me wants to take the picture of the mom as well, to really fuck with their heads, but it will send a very different message if I do. On my side at least, family members aren't a part of this. For Harold's sake, I wished they felt the same way.

The closet appears empty of loot—only clothes and a stained plastic milk crate full of spray-paint cans.

Moving on to the next bedroom, I glance back out at the slumbering guards first. I can only see one couch from my vantage point, but the kid is still dead asleep. The next room is more subdued, wooden shelves hold an assortment of trophies from car contests and muscle-building powder. A single thong is tacked to the wall in here and I feel slightly sad for this guy. He isn't the lothario his homey is, so he's duped himself into compensating for it with car culture and bodybuilding. His bedspread, adorned with a printed white Impala, looks to be one of those cheap blankets sold out of vans beneath overpasses all over the city. Having been in so many homes, scraping up the dead, I notice that this invasion of privacy feels second nature to me. I dig into his drawers, finding a single box of condoms, unopened. Along with them, capped and loaded syringes and pills with names like androstenedione and boldenone. I scoop 'em all up and put them in the pockets of my hoodie along with a gallon-size baggie of weed that is less than a third full. There is also a pair of rubber gloves in the drawer, which I decide to make use of. If they were in the other guy's room, I wouldn't have trusted them. In a smarter frame of mind, I'd have brought my own gloves, but then, in a smarter frame of mind, I wouldn't even be here.

The third bedroom belongs to the paterfamilias of the house, no doubt. It's a man's room, with pictures of his children instead of cars and pussy. A medallion necklace of an eagle's head rests on the long wooden dresser—I recognize it as belonging to Coco.
Perfect.
This is Harold's killer. This is where I need to leave my message.

A stacked lockbox sits beneath the bed next to a series of small, familiar cardboard boxes—he used to leave boxes like this for me when I did his “cleaning.” I search his dresser for the key to the lockbox and find it quickly beneath his assorted boxers. There is no time to worry about the guys in the living room; it already feels like I've been here too long. Opening the box, I find a gold-plated .50 caliber handgun, a shiny thing with an ornate image of Lady Death carved into the handle.

Surrounding the enormous pistol are stacked bullets, some with names written on the tips in fine script. I want to search out my name among them, but I focus instead on the two stacks of hundred-dollar bills sorted into increments of $10,000 each. I take the gun and, having no room for it in front, slip it into the back of my waistband, where it extends huge and bulky.