L.A. Confrontational Page 12

  We needed to get out before somebody discovered Mako. Call it revenge, or a message to Junky. I meant business. He wouldn’t appreciate the gesture and might snuff me out like a cigarette under his shoe. But having Mako neutralized and being in possession of his loaded weapon evened the odds. Life isn’t always fair, but sometimes the tables get turned the other way.

  I checked to find Sarah had fallen back on the bed without even attempting to put on the dress. “I guess you’re travelling in your bedroom attire. Come on.” I shook her back awake.

  She seemed to finally understand we were leaving. “Where we going?”

  “For a ride in the desert. We need to leave.”

  Her eyes opened wide. “I need to tell Junky where I’m going.”

  “Junky doesn’t control you anymore. I bought you, so you need to listen to me, Okay?”

  “I guess.”

  I covered her with a thin blanket from the bed, gathered her up in my arms, and threw her slim body over my anguished shoulder. She couldn’t have weighed more than 80 pounds. With her robe tied tightly around her, I scurried us through the empty hallway, down the nearest stairway, and out a door to my car around the corner.

  She slumped against the passenger side door. “I’m tired.”

  “You can take a nap in the back seat.” I opened the rear door and slid her onto the seat. Settled in behind the wheel, I fumbled with bullets from the glove compartment, trying to insert them into my gun. The ammo spilled onto the car floor. I dropped my gun on top of the bullets, placing Mako’s loaded weapon on my lap. I accelerated, checking the rearview mirror, as the building fell out of view.

  Chapter 19

  I drove east on a main road. Pain swept over me. I struggled to keep my focus. The girl was safe with me, but we could be killed in a car crash if I didn’t get some rest. I stopped at a large shopping center parking lot and searched my cell phone contacts to find the familiar number in the D section. He answered in a groggy voice.

  “Hey DJ. It’s Arch.”

  “Hey Buddy. I was sound asleep.”

  “Yeah, sorry. I need a favor.” I tried to describe my location, but the surroundings were unfamiliar. Driving through the lot, I found a sign with the name of the shopping center. DJ recognized my location and described how to get back to the highway. I followed his directions for the 45-minute drive.

  I pulled up in front of a fancy white brick apartment building on the edge of Beverly Hills. I left Sarah in the car and rang the doorbell. The intercom boomed with DJ’s baritone voice. “That you Arch?”

  “Yeah, DJ. Can you come down? I need help.”

  He arrived in the drab lobby, his bright red jumpsuit gave him the appearance of a chubby black Santa Claus. He had shaved his hair around his ears, the haircut enhanced his threatening image. Despite being the only black person in the building, DJ told me the owner and other residents loved having him there as a crime deterrent. Fortunately, they either didn’t know or care he was gay.

  We exchanged our traditional fist bump that sent shock waves through my body. I grimaced and my left hand shot out against a wall of mailboxes to catch my stumbling body.

  DJ grabbed hold of my arm to steady me and peered at me closely. “Jesus, Arch. Your face looks like shit. What the hell happened?”

  “I ran into an old enemy and his goons.”

  His face tensed. “Damn. That Junky dude do that to you? Where’s the bastard? I’ll get some friends and we’ll go fuck him up.”

  “Not now DJ. I got a girl in the car. Can you bring her into the apartment?” We exited the lobby and walked down to the line of cars at the curb. I twitched instinctively as each car approached. Just being in the presence of the big man should have brought some calm. But I knew Junky’s influence reached into many L.A. neighborhoods, the Hills being no exception.

  He peered into the car. “Who’s she?”

  “My client’s daughter. Junky had her. She’s pretty messed up.”

  He reached into the back seat and lifted Sarah like a rag doll. She moaned as he carried her into the building. I picked up the bullets scattered around the passenger floor and stuck them and my gun into the glove compartment, keeping Mako’s gun in my waistband. I staggered up the stairs to the apartment.

  DJ laid Sarah down on the couch. “What’s she doing, Arch?”

  “Not sure. Maybe heroin or coke. It’s going to get ugly later.”

  He shook his head. “You want some food?”

  “Not now. I just need rest.”

  “And then what?”

  “I’ll take her to Phoenix. I know someone who might be able to help her, but it’s going to be a hell of a ride once she starts to come down.”

  “Maybe, I should drive you. I can take some time off and fly back.”

  I knew my great friend’s offer was sincere—his protection still a special gift long after our college partnership ended. As my career and life collapsed around me, I spent many nights on the couch in his previous apartment, a temporary sanctuary unknown to my enemies.

  “Thanks, but I’ll be able to make it if I can get just a few hours rest.”

  “If you’re sure. I know how damn stubborn you are. You can crash in the spare bedroom and I’ll keep an eye on the girl.”

  I stopped to take a piss and noticed the dabs of blood swirling around in the toilet bowl with my urine. From my post-football game experience, I figured my beating had resulted in minor internal damage.

  The spare bedroom furnishings were as I remembered from his previous apartment placed with care in a bright comfortable room with gold walls reflecting the streaming sunlight from the window. A half-full crystal bowl of potpourri on the nightstand filled the room’s air with a fresh scent. The pleasant ambiance brought the comfort DJ intended. Although I didn’t think it would matter to my tired body, I closed the rose-colored drapes to dampen the light.

  How can I describe DJ? He played left guard at UCLA and adopted me as his “little” white friend. We became inseparable. I came up with his nickname, because his facial features; freckled light brown skin, short-cropped reddish-brown hair, slight mustache, and warm smile reminded me of Dennis Johnson, a guard who had played for the Boston Celtics and Phoenix Suns, and later briefly became head coach for the Los Angeles Clippers. The similarity ended there—DJ’s head and body more closely resembled a tank. Despite his 300 pounds, he could roll out from his tackle position on a sweep, lead the tailback to the hole, and plow right over the opposition’s defensive player. Rather than call a number in the huddle, the quarterback referred to the pitch out as the ‘DJ Slaughter’.

  Born Albert Williams, the two-letter monogram became so familiar most people forgot his real name. His popularity expanded on campus—the University President used his initials, instead of his real name at the graduation ceremony bringing a big roar from our senior class. After graduation, he spent four years on the Raiders practice squad, hoping to eventually make the team and fulfill his dream of playing in the NFL. But despite his abilities, it never worked out and he now made good money working security at nearly every major sporting event in the L.A. area, including the Raiders home games. I had counted on his being home on a weekday morning, most likely after working a pro-basketball game the previous night.

  I dialed Frank Minor’s cell phone.

  “Frank, I’ve got Sarah.” I collapsed on the bed.

  He gasped. “Oh my God. Is she okay? Where are you?”

  “We’re in L.A. She’s pretty messed up from drugs. If it’s all right with you I’m going to take her to a clinic in Scottsdale run by a friend of mine. He’ll be able to help her. She’s underage, so you’ll need to grant me permission.”

  “Of course, Arch. Do what you think is best for her.”

  “You’ll need to get to the clinic or call them if you want to leave her there, or you can pick her up and take her somewhere else. I’ll be there in about six hours.”

  “I can get a flight later today and be there by ev
ening.”

  “I’ll let them know you’re arriving tonight. They can hold her until you get to the clinic tomorrow morning and decide what you want to do. The clinic has a great reputation.” I gave him the contact information. He thanked me several times before we disconnected.

  I called the clinic but couldn’t reach my old friend from high school, Sal Cangeloni. My call was transferred from a receptionist through an automated message system. Sal served as the head administrator. The Cangelonis had owned a chain of Italian restaurants in Phoenix, and Sal could have entered the family business and made a fortune after graduating from University of Arizona. But after his older sister died of a drug overdose, he opted for medical school, eventually opening his own clinic. When his voicemail prompted me, I left Sal a message letting him know I was bringing in a patient and it might be near closing time.

  I lay down on the queen bed and stared at the white ceiling. As the pain subsided, my bruised body drifted into therapeutic sleep.

  …

  DJ’s booming voice in the other room roused me out of my nap. According to the clock radio, I had been asleep for just over an hour. The pain returned as I sat up and my feet hit the floor.

  I walked into the kitchen where DJ fed Sarah small mouthfuls of split pea soup. She seemed to be enjoying the food, although her eating before the drugs wore off during a long trip couldn’t be a good thing. The Linda Blair vomiting scene from The Exorcist flashed across my mind, bringing on a touch of my own nausea.

  DJ smiled. “I made some soup. Have a seat.” He went into the kitchen and returned with a large bowl and a warm piece of bread. “Did you call her family?”

  I nodded. “Her father’s going to meet us in Phoenix.”

  He placed the food in front of me. “It’s sourdough. I made it last night.”

  I dipped the bread into the soup and the taste exploded in my mouth. “You need to open a café.”

  “Yeah, how many years we be saying that, my man?”

  “Too many. But when I strike it rich…”

  It was a conversation often repeated between us, but this time I couldn’t keep it going. The idea that we would save enough money to open a restaurant had been a fantasy dependent upon my success in the law enforcement field and DJ’s signing a lucrative contract to play in the pros. Neither scenario had panned out, so the dream had yielded to the real world—just trying to make ends meet. He seemed to be doing a better job at it than me.

  He laughed and shrugged. “I’m doing fine, Arch. I’ve accepted my fate. I even met a nice guy. We’ve gone out a few times so we’ll see. And what about Jo and Jo?”

  The names were how he referred to my wife and daughter. “I think they’re in Vegas. I haven’t been in touch. Josie’s birthday is coming up.”

  He grabbed my hand. “You gotta go, man. You gotta go see that little girl of yours.” His eyes lit up and his voice trembled. I knew he loved me like a brother.

  “I’m planning on it.”

  He nodded and smiled. But he knew of the anguish still haunting me from my days in L.A. “You need to settle your score with Junky or just let it go.”

  “I thought I had let it go, but then this case came along. It’s fate dragging me back in. Now I don’t know what to feel.”

  DJ crossed his arms over his massive chest. “Next time, you come get me, you hear?”

  “He’s a bad dude, DJ. I don’t want to get you involved in my fight. I haven’t had much success battling this guy.”

  “The problem Arch is you’ve got a heart and Junky don’t.”

  “Yeah, but mine feels pretty busted up right now, and not just emotionally.”

  “I hear you, man. You’re a lot tougher than you let on. I know this for a fact. So, don’t bullshit me. You’ll recover and then decide what you want to do about Junky. You consult with me first. I got acquaintances.”

  I smiled, although it hurt. “I know you do. If I were going to war, I know who I’d want by my side.”

  “It will be war and I’ll be there for you if you want.”

  “No, I was thinking of Randle.” DJ rocked with laughter. Randle, had been a teammate of ours who played defensive end. Every week he had some ailment he claimed was serious enough to keep him out of the next game. We waged bets behind his back, trying to predict what would develop as the next week’s ailment.

  DJ was still snickering. “That pussy. Well, I’m glad you still got your sense of humor. Hold on.” He left the room while I finished the soup.

  When DJ returned, he handed me a prescription bottle. “Courtesy of the Raidas.” He pronounced the team name imitating the voice of a former sportscaster named Howard Cosell. “They’re strong and will perk you right up. I’ll also brew you up some coffee to take. Sorry, but those are my last pills. I ain’t got those same connections no more. If you can wait, I’ll scrounge some up from my other sports friends.”

  “No, it’s okay. These will get me to Phoenix.” At that point, an overdose of pain meds would have seemed like relief, but getting Sarah to Phoenix was my next goal. I had to take one excruciating step at a time.

  He equipped me with a gigantic thermos of strong black coffee, and helped Sarah into the backseat of the car. We wrapped her in the blankets, and DJ added a purple plastic pail. “You never know.”

  I laughed. “You think she’ll hit it?”

  “There’s always a chance.”

  I got in and started the engine. DJ held the door open with a frown. He gave me a soft fist bump. “You be careful, Arch. Call if you need anything.”

  “You got it.” Several pills slid down my throat with a gulp of hot coffee. He shut the door and I headed for the I-10.

  Chapter 20

  I cruised along the I-10 towards Phoenix, oblivious to the picturesque desert landscape, until the pain and fatigue double-teamed me. A truck stop appeared like an oasis just shy of the Arizona border. Sarah had been sick and the vehicle smelled of vomit. Her moaning suggested she was having a bad detox. After parking on the perimeter of the truck stop, I got out to check on her. Rolled up in her bathrobe and thin blanket, she quivered with chills and fever—her forehead burned to my touch.

  I locked the car and tossed the filthy plastic floor mat with the congealed vomit into a garbage can. Sarah had missed the pail.

  A convenience store and attached restaurant lay just beyond the nearby fuel pumps. I glanced back to make sure Sarah didn’t get out and go for a zombie stroll through the parking lot. It wouldn’t look good to be seen dragging a drugged-up teenager in her robe back to the car.

  A battered swollen face, bruised cheeks and puffy eyes stared back at me in the service station restroom mirror. The cold water and anti-bacterial soap from a wall dispenser stung as I washed the cuts around my nose and mouth. It woke me up.

  The small store featured the usual tourist paraphernalia, along with rows of snacks and a corner filled with Native American gift selections. I purchased a cotton blanket, several bottles of water, and two cups of coffee from a square machine.

  I returned to the car with a plastic bag containing the blanket and the water, and balancing the coffees on a cardboard carrier. The caffeine would do both of us some good. I encouraged Sarah to sit up. Her eyes were half-shut and she sat with her arms wrapped tightly around her as if bound in a straightjacket.

  “I’ve got some coffee. It will help you feel a little better.”

  Sarah nodded, although her eyes fluttered on the verge of closing.

  “But first I want you to drink some water because you’re probably dehydrated. Ready?” I opened the bottle and tipped it to her lips, but the liquid dribbled down her chin onto her robe. “Come on Sarah, you need to drink this and then I’ll give you the coffee.”

  Her eyes opened and she snarled at me. “Screw you.”

  “Yeah, well I’m not crazy about you either. You threw up all over my car. Maybe one day you’ll thank me for this.”

  Her indignant look softened and she closed her eyes.


  “I’m trying to help you. Your family asked me to find you.”

  She opened her eyes. I motioned with the bottle and this time she drank, taking small baby sips that grew to substantial swallows. Her throat must have been raw from vomiting. She finished half the water; her thirst now quenched after riding with the sun beating down on her through the rear window.

  She nodded before handing back the half-empty bottle. I placed it in the backseat cup holder and handed her the coffee. “Here, try some of this, the caffeine will give you a little jolt and help the withdrawal. Careful, it’s a bit hot. She placed both hands around the coffee cup.

  It’s going to be a rough couple of hours until we get to Phoenix where I can get you some real help.” She shivered despite the heat, so I wrapped both blankets around her. “You can put the cup in the holder here if you don’t want to drink it now.”

  I filled the tank with gas, eased into the driver’s seat, and started the car. The AC blowers had been set to blast the cold air to keep me awake. I reduced the flow, directing it at me instead of to the rear of the vehicle, where Sarah sat wrapped in the blanket like a vertical burrito. I popped the last painkiller and washed it down with the water. Sarah’s blank face stared back at me in the rearview mirror, a few tears trickled down her cheek. She retrieved the coffee and slowly sipped the warm liquid.

  “Next stop Phoenix. Well technically, Scottsdale.”

  She nodded as I took a couple of sips of the bitter coffee, hoping the caffeine would help keep me awake for the next few hours.

  …

  We arrived in the Phoenix area just after peak rush hour, but the traffic slowed to a crawl before reaching the 101 turnoff to Scottsdale. A half-hour later, I pulled up to the clinic at sunset, relieved to see lights on. I stumbled up a long cement ramp flanked by metal guardrails to find the doors unlocked.