Broken Lion (14 page)

Chapter 14

BRIGID

“Lion, can I take you back to the dojo in Burbank? That’s where your car is, right?”

We were pulled to the side of the road on Cahuenga Boulevard, next to the big Armenian church with the hexagonal pyramid for a roof. I recognized it from whenever I drove by on the 101.

“No. I’m good.” He opened the car door and winced when he banged his knee climbing out. Good thing he had that knee brace on.

“Is your knee okay?”

“It’s fine,” he grunted as he reached in for his crutches.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to drive you?”

“Better not.” He looked up and down the street nervously. “I don’t want to drag you into the mess I made.”

“It’s our mess.”

“Trust me, it’s not.”

Was he worried about the police? All this was so far outside my wheelhouse, I had no idea what I should do. Then again, I never would’ve thought he was a convicted felon either. People were full of surprises.

My hands were still shaking with adrenaline. I couldn’t believe what had happened, but it had. I didn’t know what I was going to say to Daniel when we got home. I would have to tell Donald about it. Daniel was likely to have bad dreams about those men. If not dreams, it would come out some other way down the line. Somehow, Donald would eventually find out.

I hoped Daniel had only seen what he told Lion, namely the man “falling asleep.” Not that watching Lion cut off a man’s blood supply to his brain until he lost consciousness was a minor thing. Seeing it first hand through the car windshield was traumatic for me, so I could only guess at the effect it would have on my son. I just hoped that was all he’d seen. When we had turned the corner of the parking garage I had yelled at him to close his eyes while I focused on driving. I saw most of the fight, but I hoped Daniel hadn’t. But he’d obviously seen more than enough to be frightened.

I was grateful that Lion hadn’t been seriously hurt. The laceration on his scalp looked like it needed to be repaired with a few absorbable sutures, but it wasn’t life threatening. As for his knee, I hoped he hadn’t done any more damage to it. Hopefully the brace had protected it.

“I need to go,” Lion said and closed the door. The window was still down and he leaned against the doorframe. “If the cops come looking for you, who are you gonna say I am?”

“My friend.”

“They’ll ask for my name. What are you gonna say?”

“The truth.”

He stared at me for a long time, his eyes intense and haunted. Was he mad at me? I couldn’t blame him. I didn’t make a good criminal. I wanted to help him any way I could, but I wasn’t sure how. He didn’t deserve the trouble he was in. And none of this would’ve happened if I hadn’t agreed to Universal Studios. Why hadn’t I called it a day after eating lunch in the park? Lunch was bad enough. The rest of the day definitely looked like a date to anyone with half a brain. It was a huge mistake and it was all my fault.

I heaved a sigh. “Do you want me to lie?” It wasn’t my preference, but somehow I felt I owed him for protecting me and Daniel. “I’ll tell the police you were someone else. I’ll tell them it was Donald.”

“Who’s Donald?”

“My ex-husband.”

“What will Donald say to the cops when they ask him how he beat up those three thugs?”

“Oh. Right. Sorry.” There was no way I could get Donald to entangle himself in a clumsy web of lies to protect a man he’d never met.

“If the cops come knocking, just tell them it was me. But we’ll cross our fingers and hope they don’t.”

My hand still quivered with adrenalin as I held up my fingers, crossing them. I hoped it did more good than the last time I crossed them.

He smiled. The first one I’d seen since before the fight. What a relief. “Better use every bit of your luck of the Irish on this, Irish.”

“I will. I promise.”

He turned to go.

“Don’t you want your Irish Kiss?”

He stared back at me through the windshield.

I considered hopping out of the car and running to him. Somehow this felt like a goodbye. A permanent one. That was the last thing I wanted. I barely knew this man, and yet I knew he was perfect for me. The same way he barely knew Daniel and yet they both acted like they’d been best friends forever. Every inch of my being said that Lion Maxwell was a good man. The right man for me. The only thing standing in our way was the Medical Board of California and it’s position on doctors dating patients, as well as the identical position held by Los Angeles Central Hospital. There was no way to explain to an ethics committee that the power dynamic that existed between Lion and me was balanced and fair. I had never met a man more powerful than him. The proof was his willingness to risk his life to protect me and Daniel. All I did for him was order an MRI for his knee, which I didn’t even do, and prescribe some pills before sending him on his way. I didn’t have a hold on him. He had a hold on me. A hold I was afraid would never let go, whether he stayed in my life somehow or left forever.

He saluted me. “See you around, Irish.”

Then he turned on his crutches and swung down Cahuenga on the empty night sidewalk. The sight of him making his getaway on crutches in a knee brace bordered on pathetic. My inability to help him made me feel equally pathetic. But what could I really do for him?

“Where is he going, Mom?”

“I don’t know, sweetheart.”

“When do we see him again?”

“I don’t know.” My voice was tight and I could barely speak.

Silent tears dribbled down my face as I drove Daniel home.

Chapter 15

LION

A beat up old Cutlass Sierra rolled to a stop beside me. The brakes squeaked so loud I thought the noise would pierce my eardrums. The passenger window wobbled as it rolled down. It needed fixing bad. This late at night, the guy inside the boxy Cutlass could be anybody.

I was about a mile south on Cahuenga from where Brigid had dropped me off. Down in Hollywood where the hookers walked the streets. My armpits were killing me from walking all damn day on these miserable crutches. After landing on my knee in the fight, it was throbbing and I couldn’t put any weight on it without it shooting pain. At this point, I was willing to take a ride from anybody. I didn’t care who it was as long as I got off these damn crutches. I leaned down and looked in the car.

An old man wearing a flat driving cap and a worn out windbreaker leaned over and grumbled at me in a crunchy voice, “How much for a suck?”

I glared at him, “For you, old man? A million bucks.”

“It ain’t worth it.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing,” I chuckled.

“Get in the car, asshole,” he laughed.

I opened the passenger door. “Good to see you too, Coach. Thanks for coming to pick me up so late.”

“You better have a damn good reason for dragging me out of bed in the middle of Saturday Night Live.”

“You still watch that piece of shit show? It’s been a dried out turd ever since Will Ferrell left.”

“You still want a ride home, smart ass?”

“Love the show. The new cast is better than ever. Who needs Will Ferrell?”

“Damn right. Get in. And buckle up your seatbelt. I ain’t going anywhere until you do.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“What in hell you doing gimping around on crutches in the middle of the damn night?”

“Long story.”

“Do I wanna know?” He stared at me over the top of the reading glasses he always wore.

I arched an eyebrow.

“I don’t wanna know.” He shifted the car into drive and pulled into traffic. The muffler farted as he accelerated.

“When are you gonna let me buy you a new car? This thing is falling apart.”

“I’m falling apart. You gonna replace me with a newer model?”

“Nah,” I chuckled. “Guess I’ll have to run you into the ground.”

“Heh heh heh.” He laughed his usual wheezy laugh. “Where we going, son?”

“My house?”

“You don’t sound too sure.”

“I’m not.”

“Wanna stay at my place? I can put you on the Hide-A-Bed in the living room.” Coach had a one bedroom apartment in a fleabag building downtown that should’ve been condemned years ago. I tried plenty of times to get him to move into my place up in the Hollywood Hills, but he refused. Said the Hills didn’t have character.

“You still got those damn hairball cats?”

“Yeah.”

“You feed ‘em today?”

“Shit. Not since morning.”

“Then I’ll take you home.”

There were two men in my life who gave everything they had to make me a better man. One of them, Jose Chavez, gave his life. The other was Coach, a.k.a. Dean Jackson, the man sitting next to me. Neither one was my biological father. The only thing that sperm donor ever gave me was the name Lion. After that, he disappeared.

The death of Jose Chavez was the reason I went off the rails for a while back when I was eighteen. That was a bad time in my life. Full of bad memories. Broke into a bunch of houses and stole a bunch of shit I didn’t need. Ended up getting caught because I didn’t care if I did. Pled guilty to two counts of first degree felony burglary and spent two years in prison because of it. I didn’t care if I lived or died at that point.

I met Dean Jackson when I was in prison. He was part of an outreach program for the inmates. Teaching them to read. I already knew how, but I needed something to do. Dean took a liking to me right away. The first book he made me read was The Greatest: My Own Story by Muhammad Ali. He eventually told me he used to be a boxing coach. We bonded over our mutual appreciation for the art of hand to hand combat, as men do. He told me if I got out of prison before he died (he was seventy then and almost eighty now), he would teach me everything he knew about fighting in the squared circle.

Fourteen months later, I was out on parole for good behavior. Training with Dean gave me purpose. I even lived in his fleabag apartment until I got a job and found my own place. I never went into boxing like he’d hoped, but I did consider it. At the end of the day, I was a martial artist. Good thing Dean liked the idea of doing something different in his golden years. He was my coach and cornerman for every professional fight I’d ever had. He was family.

Twenty minutes later, we pulled to a stop outside the gate for my house. He knew the code and punched it in on the keypad before driving me up to the front steps. He said, “Do you really need that much damn house?”

“It’s a business investment.”

“It’s a boat anchor, is what it is. Me, I can pack up and leave at the drop of a hat if I need to.”

“How long you lived in that rundown building?”

“Fifteen years.”

“Good thing you can pack up and leave any time you want. When you planning to do that?”

He snorted. “Whenever the hell I want. You need help getting out?”

“I’ve got it.” I levered myself out of the car with my crutches. My bad knee was throbbing like crazy and felt swollen to the size of a basketball, like it could pop the knee brace open if it got any bigger.

Dean walked me to the door. “You want me to stay and help out?”

“I think I’ll be okay. You want some water or whatever before you go?”

“Seeing as how SNL is over,” he checked the old Timex on his wrist, “may as well take a load off.”

“You can probably watch it on hulu.”

“What in hell is a hulu? Is that like a hula-hoop?”

I chuckled. “Never mind.”

We walked to the kitchen. Like most of my house, everything in the kitchen was natural woods and stone. Plenty of house plants in every room. Sort of like a jungle. I liked it. So did the cats. There were claw marks all over the place.

The cats trotted into the kitchen, their tails high. They knew Dean well. Aslan circled his legs, wrapping his tail around the man’s slacks. They were all meowing for food. Dean helped set out fresh plates. He could bend down better than I could with my knee throbbing. Then I offered him a water bottle from the fridge.

“I know where the tap is. And the glasses.” He went to one of the beveled glass kitchen cabinets and pulled out a contoured glass. “You want one?”

“I’m good.” I screwed off the top of the water bottle I’d pulled out for myself and took a swallow.

He filled his glass from the sink faucet. “This water is just as good as that. I don’t know why you have to waste the plastic.”

“I refill it. Stays cold in the fridge.”

“Suit yourself.” He sipped from his glass. “What’s on your mind, son? I can tell something’s bothering you.”

“I don’t know where to begin.”

“The beginning is always a good place,” he smirked over his reading glasses. “I better sit down. My knees aren’t much better than yours.”

I pulled out a chair for him from the table in the breakfast nook.

“I’m not a lady. I can get my own damn chair.” He pulled out the one opposite.

When I sat down, I felt icepicks stabbing my ribs where Curly had kicked them. I’d had broken ribs before. This was that. Nothing you could do about it except grunt away the pain.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine,” I hissed and dug my phone out of my pocket and showed him a picture of me standing with Brigid and Dan at Universal in the Super Silly Fun Land. We all had on our Minions hats and silly grins. Two of the life-size costumed Minions characters stood on either side of us, waving at the camera.

“What the hell are those yellow things?”

“They’re called Minions.”

“Look like bunions to me.”

I snorted a laugh. “Something like that.”

“That you in the silly bunion hat?”

“Yup.”

“You got a wife and kid I don’t know about?” He saw me weekly when I wasn’t training, daily when I was. He knew I didn’t.

“I wish.”

I told him the long version of the entire story of meeting Brigid at the hospital, the whole doctor-patient thing, meeting Dan, all the way through the fight in the parking lot. As I told it, he cleaned up the cut on my scalp and closed it with butterfly bandages and sterile tape. Not only had Dean been my cornerman during my professional fights, he had also been my cutman on occasion, and knew his way around battle wounds. While he worked and I told my story, he said, “Mmm-hmm” and “Hmm” and “Are you crazy?” or “Have you done lost your mind?” numerous times.