A Good Rain by Donald D. Shore

       Plenty of women have left me.  Some of them are just blurred memories.   But Clair is going to stick with me for a long time. 

      The empty whiskey bottle stares at me from the top of my cigarette butt cluttered desk.  I fish a half smoked Marlboro from the ashtray and stare right back.  There’s nothing but residue in the bottle.  Brown drops of rotgut.  I light the stale cigarette.  I can’t take my eyes off that bottle.  My hands are sweating.  There’s a swallow left in the bottle.  There’s a taste.  And it wants me as bad as I want it. 

     My phone vibrates against the desk.  I stub out the cigarette and check the number.  I want it to be Clair but it’s not.  It’s Charlie Grace.

    “Hey, Charlie,” I say, my eyes drifting back to that beautiful bottle.  The early light of the day turns the dregs at the bottom of the bottle a golden brown. 

     I put a hand to my pulsing temple and listen to Charlie.  “Hey, Jack. You still living in that office on west side?”

    “Yeah, Charlie,” I say, wanting him to cut to the point.  “What do you want?”

    “Just calling to see if you needed some work.  I got a job for you.”

            “What kind of job?”  Charlie Grace is a P.I. I met back when I started out in the business.  He would take cases no one else would touch because they involved dirty money from dirty people with a few cops thrown in.  Dangerous business. 

            “This is a good one, Jack. I would take it on myself, but my schedules packed.  You’re the first guy I thought of for a referral.”

            “Cut to it, Charlie.”

            “Not on the phone, Jack.  Client privilege and all.”

            “How am I supposed to take the job if you don’t tell me what it is, Charlie?”

            My nerves are fraying like a rope over a candle and the whiskey bottle is staring at me like a disappointed lover.

            “Listen, Jack.  Meet me at the pier at twelve.  I’ll bring the client and we can work something out.  This is good money, Jack, so show up this time.”

            “Yeah.”

             I’ve got time to kill so I take the metro down to the pier.  There’s a handful of people on a bus that stinks like urine and Pine-Sol.  The smell of dying dreams.  A woman at the front of the bus looks lost.  The other passengers avoid the woman with a practiced ambivalence.  I’ve got my own problems, so I look away too.  I watch cars pass by outside the bus window.  This city could use a good rain.

            I get off the bus at the Santa Monica pier.  The day is warm and the sun almost makes me feel alive.  I count boats out on the ocean so I don’t think about whiskey.  I’d settle for a beer.  Beer goes good with an ocean breeze. 

            By the time Charlie Grace shows up with the client I’m three beers into a six-pack.  Charlie’s about five-seven and looks like a failed actor.  He always looks like he’s about to smile but he never does.

            He introduces me to the client, Jim Valentine.  I know his name, either from the papers or from a police flyer, I can’t remember which.  His hair is slicked back and stiff.  He wears dark expensive looking sunglasses.  We shake hands.   

            Charlie sits down next to me on the bench.  “Like I was telling you on the phone, Jack.  I got a real easy job for you.”

            “Why don’t you do it?”

            That stops Charlie for a second.  He recovers quick and goes on.  “I’m all booked up, Jack.  I figured I could toss you an easy one, since we’re pals.  Mr. Valentine is a regular client of mine.  I’d hate to let him down.  I told him you were one of the best.”

            I look up at Mr. Valentine.  I can’t tell if he’s looking at me or my beer through his stupid sunglasses.  It’s bad etiquette to wear sunglasses at a meeting, and I hate bad etiquette.  I sip my beer and blow my smoke.

            “So what’s the job, Mr. Valentine?”

            Valentine inches closer.  His voice is low, like he’s worried someone’s listening in on us.

            “I need you to pick up a bag for me, Mr. Rogers.  It’s in a bus station locker.”

            “What’s in the bag?”

            “You don’t need to know what’s in the bag.”  He says it quick and that bad feeling I’ve got starts to fester.  “You just pick it up from the bus station and bring it to me.  You don’t even need to look in the bag.  This is what I’m paying you for, understand?”

            “Then I don’t take the job,” I say.  “I don’t do mystery bags, Mr. Valentine.”

            “Listen, Jack,” says Charlie.  “It’s a real easy deal, see?  All you got to do is pick this package up from the bus station and then drop it off at a hotel room.  It won’t take you more than an hour.”  Then Charlie flips the acting switch, playing the part of my best friend.  “And, Jack.  The pay is good.  Real good.  If you’re still living in your office, you need to think about it.”

            I sip on my beer and look over the lid of the can at Jim Valentine.  He’s as laid back as a coke addict.  He looks like he’s going to pop right out of his skin.  I place him now.  An L.A. hood I’ve seen from the paper. 

            “I don’t do mystery packages,” I say again. 

            “Two grand, Jack,” says Charlie.  “The job pays two grand.” 

Charlie almost smiles and leans back against the bench to let that sink in.  It doesn’t take long with the beer buzz.  Charlie’s got a talent for reading people.  He knows when to move in for the kill. 

“Listen, Jack.  I’m your friend.  I wouldn’t screw you over.  All you have to do is pick up the package, doesn’t matter what’s inside, and deliver it to the Starlight Hotel on La Cienega.  Two grand for an afternoon’s work.  Easy as that.”

            Every word out of Charlie’s mouth is a lie, but right now I don’t care.  I’m still thinking about Clair.  She’s gone and not coming back.  In dark times men do careless things.

            “Alright,” I say.  “Which bus station?”

            I down two more beers while Valentine gives me the details. Before we part ways, Valentine hands me a key.  “For the locker at the bus station,” he says.  “Remember, be at the hotel with the package by four o’clock.” 

            Valentine’s twitchy.  I imagine he’s nervous trusting his package to a drunk.  I don’t blame him, but a good patsy is hard to find.

            Charlie shakes my hand.  “You’re really helping me out, Jack.”                  

            “Yeah.”  The six pack is done and my head is swimming from the heat.  “Just have my money, Charlie.”

            “Not a problem,” Charlie says as he walks away.  “Just come by the office after you drop the package.  I’ll pay you out.”

            The whole thing smells bad, but I’m too hungover and heartbroken to care.  I head over to the bus stop and sit down to wait for the metro and sweat today’s beer and last night’s whiskey. 

            I manage the ride without puking and get out at my stop.  Claire is standing there, beautiful as ever.  She’s got a body that won’t quit and a face to match.  She’s standing beside my car, waiting for me.

            “I knocked on your door,” she says as I approach.

            “I was out.”

            “Oh.”

            I’m the type of guy who likes a planned speech and she’s caught me off guard.  “You need something,” is what I come up with.  It sounds harsher than I mean it to.  

            “Yes,” she says, and tells me she left her phone charger up in my office. 

            “Come on up”.

            Claire follows me up the flight of stairs to my office, trying not to look at me the whole way.  This is the last place she wants to be.

            “You could have just bought another one, you know,” I tell her.  “You didn’t have to come down here.”

            “They’re twenty dollars, Jack,” she says.      

            “Small price to pay to avoid the likes of me.”    

            “Twenty bucks is twenty bucks, Jack.  That’s why you’re always broke.”

            “No,” I say.  “I’m always broke because I’m a drunk.  Remember?”

            “Whatever,” Claire says, reaching for the charger plugged into the wall.  “I didn’t come here to fight.  I just want my charger.”

            I reach out and take her hand.  She lets me hold it for a second, and then takes it away.

            “I have to go, Jack.”

            “Someone waiting for you?”

            “No,” she says.  “I just have to go.”

            No hug, no goodbye.  She just leaves.

            I make my way to the Downtown L.A. bus station.  Traffic on the 101 doesn’t calm my nerves.  I feel sick from heartbreak and alcohol.  Two things that go so good together.  I park in the lot and light a smoke to catch a feel for the scene.  I watch every face that goes in and out of the bus station.  I can still turn back.  My hands are sweating when I crush out the cigarette and head inside.

People from all over the country go through the Downtown Los Angeles bus station.  I scope out every one of them.  Desperate faces.  Anxious faces.  Vultures circling about, sniffing out for the fresh fish.  Beggars begging poor people for change as they step off the buses.

 I walk straight to the locker area.  I don’t look over my shoulder, but I scan every face in front of me.  I don’t see any cops.  Not in uniform anyway.  I scan the numbers and find the locker that matches the key.  I look over my shoulder. It’s my last chance to back out. 

I slide the key in and turn.  The locker door pops open.  There’s a satchel inside.  I take the bag, slip it over my shoulder, and shut the locker.  I make for the exit door. 

I avoid eye contact with everyone I pass.  There’s a bald man in a suit walking straight towards me.  I make him as a cop but he passes me by and I step through the doors outside. 

I get in my car, throw the bag in the passenger seat, and start her up.  I’m sweating and it has nothing to do with the heat or the alcohol.  I’m an idiot for taking on this job.  I pull up to the exit, look both ways, and drive out onto Figueroa.  Five minutes later I’m back on the 101, fighting traffic into Hollywood.  I keep checking the rearview.  They should have nabbed me, but they didn’t.  Looked right at me, and let me go.  I light a cigarette and head for West L.A. to drop off the bag, but first I need a drink.

            I have some time to kill, and the best way an alcoholic knows how to kill time is by drinking.  After the bus terminal, I need to cool my nerves before meeting Valentine.  Can’t go in there all shaky and nervous.  Shaky and nervous gets a man killed. 

            I pull into the little parking lot in front of The Ace of Spades.  I shut the car off and look down at the satchel.  I unzip the bag and take a look inside.  There’s about half a dozen zip-lock bags full of jewels.  They glitter up at me like a high end prostitute.  I zip the bag back up and slip it under the passenger seat.

 I’ve got two hours to kill before the deadline to deliver the bag at the hotel.  Now that I’ve seen what’s in the bag, I need a drink more than ever.

            Just a drink or two.    

            I come back out an hour and a half later to find my passenger side window bashed out.  I stand there like a retired department store mannequin, staring at the pile of shattered glass on the pavement.  My first thought is it’s a hallucination.  I get those sometimes.  I want it so bad to be a hallucination.  I walk slowly toward the car door and pull it open to check under the seat.  Glass shards fall from the window and door.  It’s no hallucination.  The satchel is gone. 

I turn away.  Vomit splatters against broken glass and asphalt.

            I pull myself together and hold onto the car door for support.  My knees feel like they’re going to give out on me.  I look around the parking lot.  There’s no one around.  Just the empty cars in the lot.  Glass falls from the car and sprinkles like ice onto the pavement.

            I wake up and my head is swimming.  I sit up from the couch in my office where I passed out.  For the moment I’ve forgotten everything.  I’ve forgotten the job.  I’ve forgotten the missing jewels.  I’ve forgotten all about Charlie and Valentine.  I’ve even managed to forget about Claire.  I close my eyes to the promise of vertigo, but it’s too late.  I barely make it to the toilet before I vomit.  I vomit until my stomach heaves with dry convulsions.

            I make it to my feet, just barely, and walk back to the couch.  I feel my phone vibrate.  It’s Charlie.  That’s when it all comes flooding back.

            “Where the hell are you, Jack?” is the first thing he says to me.  He’s angry and I don’t blame him.  His words chatter out like an old typewriter.  “You were supposed to deliver the package six hours ago, Jack.  Valentine’s been calling me every fifteen minutes.  You know what’s going to happen if you screw this one up, Jack?  You’re dead.  I’m dead.  Everyone we know is dead, Jack.  You know who these guys are, don’t you?”  He takes a pause to catch his breath.  Maybe something he learned from acting class.  Then he comes back real low.   “Tell me you’ve got the package, Jack.  Tell me you’ve got the package and you’re on your way to the hotel.”

            “I’ve got the package and I’m on the way to the hotel,” I say.

            “Don’t lie to me, Jack.”

            I take a breath.  “I lost it, Charlie,” I say.  “I lost the satchel.”

            Charlie doesn’t say anything.  The phone stays silent for so long I think I might have lost him.  Maybe he hung up.  Then his voice comes back.  All restrained anger, as if this could still be fixed, as long as he keeps his temper in check. 

            “You know what was in that bag, Jack?”

            “Jewels.”

            “Two million dollars’ worth of jewels, Jack.”

            A long silence. 

Then: “You killed us, Jack.”

            “I can get the bag back, Charlie,” I say.  I feel bad for Charlie.  He’s got a life worth living, I suppose.  Mine’s in shambles, so I could care less.  But Charlie’s a friend.  “Buy me a few hours, Charlie.  I can get the bag back.  You know I can do it.”

            Another long silence. 

“I’ll see what I can do.  These aren’t the type of guys you can jerk around, Jack.  You have to get those jewels back.”

            “I’ll get them back,” I say.  “Charlie?”

            “Yeah.” 

            “Why’d you hire me, Charlie?  You should know better than to trust a drunk.”

            Charlie sighs into the phone.  “Just get them back, Jack,” he says and hangs up.

            I sit there for minute with the phone in my hand, trying to clear my head.  Then I hear several pairs of feet coming up the steps outside my office.  I stand up to peek out the blinds just as someone pounds on the door.  Then they bash it in.  I spin around and see two big mooks the size of gorillas stomping into my office.  I launch myself at them, still drunk enough to think I have a chance. 

            I don’t get in a single lick.  The one in front sends a fist my way.  He looks slow, but looks are deceiving.  His fist catches me on the chin.  My world spins and I crumple to the floor.   

He lifts me off the floor and throws me onto to the couch.  The two of them stand over me with their arms crossed.  They’re not worried about me at all.  I’m just a little rat to them.  They stand over me, waiting for me to make a move.  The only move I make is to rub the soreness out of my chin. 

            “You know who we are?” says one of the mooks.  I’ll call him Mook #1.

            “I could guess,” I say.

            Mook #2 slaps me.  He slaps me hard.  The world spins for a second before I can focus on them again.

            “We work for Mr. Valentine,” says Mook #1. 

            “That would have been my guess.”

 Mook #2 gives me another one.  I see it coming and turn my head.  His slap catches me on the skull.  It hurts, but doesn’t have the same bite as the first one. 

            “Mr. Valentine doesn’t like being ripped off,” says Mook #1.  “You know what happens when Mr. Valentine gets ripped off?”

            “People get slapped around?”

            Mook #2 slaps me again.  I take it in the face and get a busted lip out of the deal.  I wipe the blood on my sleeve and look up at Mook #2.  I decide I don’t like him.  He has wide chin.  The kind you want to punch.

            “People who rip Mr. Valentine off get dead,” says Mook #1.

He goes on about how I’m going to be sorry I was ever born.  Typical tough guy stuff.  I’m not really paying attention anymore.  I’m staring at Mook #2 and rubbing my face, waiting for him to try another slap. 

Then Mook #1 gets my attention.  He shows me a picture on his phone.  He holds it real close, so there’s no mistake.  A picture of Claire stares back at me. 

“She’s real pretty, isn’t she?” says Mook #1.

He reads it on my face and smiles. 

 “You get that bag to Mr. Valentine,” says Mook #1.  “Because if you don’t, bad things are going to happen to that girl, and she won’t be so pretty anymore.  Understand?”

Mook #1 nudges Mook #2. 

“You got ‘till midnight, Rogers,” says Mook #1.  “Don’t make us wait until twelve-oh-one.  We won’t be gentle with her like we was with you.”

They turn and leave, not bothering to shut the door on their way out.  I’m spinning, a million thoughts running through my head.  I lost two million in jewels and Claire is in danger because of me.  They must have followed me from the pier or been watching my office.  Either way, they saw her here and knew she meant something to me.

I stand up and wipe the blood from my busted lip. I go into the bathroom to wash my face.  I see someone in the mirror I hardly recognize.  Once upon a time, I was a good detective.  Believe it or not.  Before the whiskey soaked through. 

The guy I used to be could fix this.  He was good at his job.  He had a natural talent.  I decide I’m going to be that other guy again.  I clean myself up, trying to find that other guy in the mirror.

It’s late in the evening, and I’m back in the Ace of Spades parking lot.  The way I figure it, one of two things happened.  Either some random passerby saw an opportunity, or I was followed from the bus station by someone who knew what they were after. 

I take a look around the parking lot.  The pile of shattered glass is still there.  I walk around, but there’s nothing else to see.    

I go inside.  The bartender eyes me coming through the dim red light.  I have a vague memory of him pouring my shots of whiskey.

“Whiskey?” he asks when I get close.

“No,” I say.  “My car was broken into.  Right outside, in your parking lot.”

“Yeah,” he says, with no real concern on his face.  “I remember.”

“What is it you remember?”

He leans against the bar and shakes his head.  “I remember you screaming and hollering about it a few hours ago.”  His eyes focus and narrow on me.  “Looks like someone busted you up good.”

“It’s been a rough night.”  

“You ever call the cops about the bag you were screaming about?”

“I don’t have time cops,” I say.  “You got cameras in the parking lot?”  I feel the shakes coming on as the smell of liquor hits me.   

“Yeah, we got cameras out there.”  He gives me a once over and decides it’d be easier to get rid of me by doing what I ask.   “Come on,” he says.  “You act up and I’ll have you tossed out again.”

He takes me to a back office.  It’s small and cramped.  There’s a desk with a computer.  A couple of filing cabinets.  The bartender squeezes into the chair behind the desk and starts tapping on the computer.  I stand over his shoulder and wait.

“Alright,” he says.  “This is it.”

He hits play and we a man walk right up to my car and smash out the window.  He leans inside and reappears with the satchel in hand. 

“Well, what do you think?” says the bartender, already bored with the whole affair.  This isn’t his problem.  “You can tell the cops I have this footage, I guess.”

“I don’t need the cops,” I say, without taking my eyes off the screen.  “I need you to play this back a couple of times.”

“Sure,” he says.  The tone of his voice tells me to hurry it up.  He’s got better things to do.  But he plays the video back again.  I have a tone in my voice, too.  One that say’s I’m not leaving until I get what I need.  

He plays it a few times and I watch the blurry, pixilated image.  The best I can tell, he’s between five and six feet, skinny, with dark clothes.  The footage is so bad I can’t tell if he’s black, or white, or Hispanic.  It looks like he wears his hair in dreadlocks.  The way he walks right up to car tells me he knew what he was looking for.   

“That’s enough,” I say, to the bartender’s relief.  Nobody likes to be sucked into another person’s problems.

He follows me back out to the bar and I head towards the exit.  Sitting on a stool in front of the door is the security guard.  He’s got his foot braced against the door, so he can kick it open and look outside.  He kicks it open for me as I approach.  I stop in front of him and brace the door open with my arm

“You sit here all day?” I ask him.

“Some days,” he says. 

“You were here this afternoon.  When my car was broken into.”  It’s not a question.  I remember him.  I’d wager a few of the bruises I got came from him.

“I guess,” he says. 

“You hear the window get smashed?  You see anything?”

“I done told you.  We’re not responsible for the parking lot.  Says so right on the sign out there.”

“Yeah, I get that.  That doesn’t mean you didn’t hear anything.  I see you over here kicking this door open.  You didn’t kick it open when you heard the window break?”

He shrugs.  The apathy of this city kills me. 

“Alright, how about this,” I say, trying a different approach.  “You ever see a guy with dreadlocks around here?  Dresses in dark clothes.  Maybe he cuts through your parking lot sometimes.”

He doesn’t say anything, but I see a light come on behind his eyes. 

“You’ve seen him.”

“Yeah.  Maybe.  Lots of dudes cut through the lot.  It’s a busy street.”

“This dude’s got dreadlocks.  Dark clothes and dreadlocks.”

He shrugs again, and looks away.  “Could be this dude comes through here,” he says without looking at me.

“You got a name?  Something he goes by?  Which way he goes when he cuts through?”

He shakes his head.  “Man, I don’t know.  Just some dude cuts through here sometimes.  He got dreadlocks.  Comes from Santa Monica Blvd and cuts up here on Vine.”

Means he’s a local.  Doesn’t mean someone didn’t nudge him along towards my car.  Someone who followed me from the bus station. 

“How often do you see him?”

“Somedays I see him, and somedays I don’t.”

That’s all I’m going to get and I feel the clock ticking.  Back in the parking lot, I check the time.  Ten-thirty.  I leave my car in the lot and start hoofing it up Vine towards Hollywood, trying to make something happen. 

My hands are shaking and I’m craving a drink so bad I feel nauseous.  It feels like it’s going to rain, and I hope it does.  Rain washes away the blame.  This was all my fault.  Every bit of it.

Then I see him.  Half way up Vine at the intersection of Sunset, huddled in a mass of street punks.  There’s a crowd loitering outside a stretch of tattoo parlors and vintage clothing stores.  Right in the middle of it all is a man with a full head of dreadlocks, wearing dark clothes.  He’s chatting it up and doesn’t see me.  I approach swiftly, my eyes taking in the scene.  I don’t see the bag, but this is the guy.  I can feel it.  

Dreadlocks turns, a big smile on his face that fades when he sees me.  He bolts and I know for sure it’s him.  I run after him, pushing my way through the street hoods and gutter punks.  He’s faster than me, but I’m desperate.  Dreadlocks cuts up Sunset, past a chicken joint.  I chase him through the lot of a condemned motel.  He hits a tall wooden fence and hops over it like an Olympic athlete on meth.  I hit the fence and climb like an out of work motivational speaker.  We both hit the ground running.  Through backyards and alleyways, and outside seedy apartment buildings.  Then he stops running and spins around.  Something flashes in his hand.  I crash into him and we tumble to the ground.  A blade slices my arm.  Across into my chest.  I grab his cutting wrist and pin it to the ground.  I bring my fist down on his face again and again.  The sharp bones of his face crack against my knuckles.  He drops the knife.  I keep punching until I’m out of breath.  I stand him up and slam him against the wall. 

“Where’s the bag?”

He’s dazed and his head wobbles on his neck.  I worry for a second that I beat him too hard.  I get over it when his eyes open and he spits into my face.  Warm, bloody drool drips across my mouth and cheek.  Dreadlocks smiles a big toothy grin.  I slap him.  Hard.

“Where’s the bag?”  I’m yelling now, with the clock ticking in the back of my mind.  “Don’t make me ask you again.”

“I ain’t got it,” he says, and I plant a fist in his stomach.  His body folds over and I force him back against the wall.

“Try again,” I say.

Dreadlocks shakes his head and I make like I’m going to launch another fist at him. 

“Alright, alright,” he says.  “Dude paid me to take it. He give me a hundred bucks and say go get the bag out the car.  I don’t even know what’s in the bag, man.”

He’s talking at me like it’s my fault he broke into my car and stole the bag.  He’s right, but I give him another punch to the gut to make myself feel better. 

Dreadlocks sucks air.  I give him a second to recover.  “Who paid you?”

“Rico, man.  Dude named Rico.  He stay up over at the Mark Twain.  You find him right on the stoop.”

 I give Dreadlocks a knee to the groin to remember me by and let him drop to the ground.  I turn around and find the blade he cut me with lying on the pavement.  It’s a folding razor, like something a 1930’s pimp would have hidden in his back pocket.  I hope the blade is cleaner than it looks.  I fold the blade in and toss it into the darkness so Dreadlocks doesn’t decide to come after me with it.

Halfway back to my car I start feeling woozy.  The adrenaline rush is gone, and I’m bleeding pretty bad.  There’s no time for a hospital.  Not even a drug store.  I get a roll of duct tape out of the trunk and wrap it around my wrist.  Blood pools along the seam and I wrap some more around the edge.  I pull my shirt up and examine the cut on my abdomen.  A thin stream of blood flows in a fan from my chest down to my trousers.  I suture it the best I can with the tape and throw the roll back in the trunk. 

The Mark Twain’s not far.  I jump in my car and drive the few blocks it takes to get there.   It gives me time to think.  I figure whatever heist Valentine pulled, this Rico character either caught wind of it somehow or was a player.  He probably just sat back and waited, watching the locker until the patsy came along and freed up the merchandise.  I fell right into his hands.

  The Mark Twain is a Hollywood landmark.  I’ve heard its where Bogart stayed before he got his big break in Hollywood.  I hope for Bogey’s sake it still had a sheen of class on it when he was stuck there. 

 I see four street hoods on the stoop.  They watch me as I park at the curb.  I get out and walk straight up to them.  One is sitting on the concrete steps with a forty ounce wrapped in one hand and blunt wrapped joint in the other.  I make him as Rico.  The other three hoods stand sentry over him like low budget bodyguards.  Rico looks up at me, half blinded by the glare of the streetlamp.

“Damn, son,” says one of the lookouts.  “Look at this fool.”

I ignore him and keep my eyes on the ring leader.  “Rico.”

A slow smile spreads across Rico’s face.  He looks up through the haze of marijuana smoke.  “Who you?”

“The owner of the bag you stole.”

He’s still smiling like there’s a punchline coming.  He looks back and forth at his boys. 

“That wasn’t your bag,” he says, and laughs.  “That was my bag.”  He takes a drag off the blunt and blows smoke my way.  “Now, disappear, before I make you disappear.”

I plant my foot in his face hard enough to crack his skull against the concrete steps.  One of the hoods next to him twitches like he’s going for something behind his back.  I give that one a backhand.  He falls back a step and then I give him a fist before he can think about it.  I turn around and give Rico another kick, this one to his ribs, to keep him down.  The hood on the other side of Rico has something in his hand.  I lunge.  I outweigh the kid by a hundred pounds and I pull him down with sheer body weight.  I pound his face with my fist.  I grab him by the hair and ram his head into the concrete until I feel him stop struggling.  My hands are warm with blood.  Someone kicks me, but I ignore it.  I come away with the pistol the hood pulled.  It’s a cheap .38.  The dark steel revolver soaks up the light from the street lamp.  I make sure the other two hoods see it in my hand.

“Uh-uh,” I say when one of them makes a move.  They stand frozen, their drug addled minds struggle to come to terms with what just happened.  “Put your hands where I can see them or I’ll blow your heads off.”

They look at one another then they do what I tell them.  I pat them down as Rico and the other hood lay on the ground moaning.  I pull pistols from every one of them.  Little rinky-dink things big enough to put a hole in a man.  I pocket the dime store pistols and move the two hoods over by their partner, the one I left bleeding on the sidewalk.

“Stand there and shut up,” I tell them.  “You move an inch and I’ll test this heater on the first punk that twitches.”   

I crouch over Rico and shove the cold steel barrel against his throat.  I grab him by the hair and force him to look into my eyes.  I want him to see how serious the situation has become.

“I’m going to tell you one more time, Rico.  I want that bag.  You can either give it to me, or I can blow your brains out and take it.  Your choice.”

“Alright, man, alright,” he says.  His breath stinks of booze and blood.  I grab him by the collar and pull him to his feet.

 “Shove off,” I tell the others with a wave of the pistol.  They don’t look at Rico.  They turn and run.  There’s no loyalty in this crew.  Not when it comes to taking a bullet.  I put the barrel back to Rico’s throat.  “Where’s the bag?”

“It’s up in the room,” he says. 

I turn him around and he fumbles for the key to the gate.  I ram the pistol barrel into his ribs for motivation.  Rico leads me through the gate and up a flight of stairs.  The door’s not locked.  We walk in and I see the satchel sitting on the bed.  I push Rico against the wall where I can keep an eye on him and check the bag.  Jewels glitter in the dirty light of the room.  I zip the bag closed.

“You making a big mistake,” says Rico. 

 I give Rico a slap in the face with the pistol to shut him up.  He doesn’t go down, but he feels it and backs up towards the bed, spilling blood on the carpet. 

“You’re just a two-bit player in a rich man’s game,” I say to Rico.   

“You going to pay for this,” he says.  “I’m going to find you and you’re going to pay.”

“Put it on my tab,” I say and give Rico another whack with the pistol.  It’s lights out for Rico.

I make a clean getaway and head for the office to wait for word from Charlie or Valentine.  Halfway there my phone vibrates.  It’s an unknown number but I answer anyway. 

“You got the gems?”  It’s Valentine. 

“Where’s Claire?”

There’s a long pause.  “She’s here,” he says.  “My boys are keeping her busy.”

“You hurt her, you’ll never see those gems.  I promise you that, Valentine.”

“Shut up,” he says.  “You have the bag.”

“I’ve got it.”.

“Then there’s no problem,” he says.  “Meet me at Sepulveda and Pico.  There’s a lot under construction there.  You’ll see it.  Pull in there and we’ll make the exchange. Don’t be late, Rogers.  You try anything funny, I’ll ruin this pretty girl’s face.”

“Let me talk to her,” I say, “or I lose the jewels right now.”

There’s another pause and then I hear her voice.  “Jack?”

“Claire.”  That’s all I get out before the cold, ugly voice returns.

“You have thirty minutes,” Valentine says.  “Don’t be late.”  Then the line clicks dead.

I beat the steering wheel with my fist.  Hot, dry air of the Los Angeles night blows through the missing passenger side window.  Thirty minutes doesn’t give me much time to figure things out.  I know what Valentine’s plan is.  No one’s coming out of that construction sight alive except Valentine and his goons. 

Halfway there, on the 10, I make another call. 

“Charlie,” I say, when he picks up.

“Did you get the gems, Jack?”
            “I got them, Charlie.  But I’m going to need back-up.”

I fill Charlie in on the situation, keeping it simple so I don’t waste time.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Give me ten minutes, Charlie.  Get your agency boys there.  Or the cops.  As long as you get someone to that construction sight.  Otherwise, Valentine is going to whack me and Claire, and then come after you.”

“Alright, Jack.  I’ll be there.”  Charlie sounds calm.  Too calm.  But he’s the only chance I’ve got right now.

“Charlie,” I say before he hangs up, “next time find yourself another patsy.”

I hang toss the phone down into the seat.  There’s a line of cars backed up for a mile at my exit.  I don’t even slow down.  I swerve into the emergency lane and hope there’s nothing blocking my path.  I peel off the 10 and head down Sepulveda, checking the rearview for blue lights.  I’ve got ten minutes.

I spot the construction site at Pico and Sepulveda and pull over to the curb so I can scope it out before I pull in.  It’s dark, but I make out two cars beyond the chain link fence that surrounds the lot.  I unzip the satchel and remove the plastic bags of gems and stash them under the driver seat.  I dig around the floorboards and grab anything with weight to it.  An empty liquor bottle and a bunch of trash.  I toss it all in the bag.

I check the pistols I pulled off Rico and his hoods.  I shove one in my sock, one in the front of my belt.  The other two I throw in the glove box.  I put the car in drive and pull into the construction site. 

I stop my car twenty feet from the parked sedans and kill the lights.  I see shadows inside both cars.  I crack my door open and get out, leaving the bag on the seat.  The Mooks climb out of one sedan and Valentine gets out of the other.  There’s still two shadows in his car.  I figure its Claire and another goon.  Mook #1 and Mook #2 step towards me. 

“Where’s the bag, Rogers?”  says Valentine. 

“In the car,” I say.  “Where’s Claire?”

He tips his head back towards the sedan.  “She’s in there,” Valentine says.  “Show me the bag.”

My eyes cut to the Mooks.  They’ve inched closer.  I reach in the car and pull out the bag.  I hold it up for Valentine to see.  “Show me the girl,” I say. 

Valentine turns to the car and gives a nod.  The door clicks open and another man steps out with Claire.  She starts for me and he puts a tight grip on her.  He’s got a pistol in his hand.  I turn back to Valentine. 

“Toss the bag,” says Valentine. 

“Her first,” I say. 

“You’re making this harder than it has to be, Rogers,” says Valentine.  “Get the bag, boys.”

I toss the bag in the air and pull the pistol from my belt.  The mooks stop cold and glance back at their boss.  The bag falls somewhere in the dark.  I don’t even look.

“You think this is some game don’t you, Rogers?” says Valentine.  “You’re not going to win this.  I have all the cards.  Kill him and get the bag.”

The Mooks reach for their pistols.  I fire high and they flinch.  I rush past, close in on Valentine, and fire a shot at him.  The bullet spiderwebs his sedan’s windshield.  I see Claire struggling.  I pop a shot at the guy holding her to keep him distracted.  Shots come from behind.  I turn and pop another shot off at the two Mooks.  Distant sirens.  Close enough to give a desperate man hope. 

“Kill them both,” Valentine growls and makes for his car. 

Claire screams.   The man holding her has his gun to her head.  I squeeze a shot off and he crumples to the ground.  I close the distance between me and Claire as the Mooks fire at me.  I grab her.  Bullets pepper the earth around us.  The sirens are louder.  Red and blue lights pulsate in the night.  I toss the pistol and pull the other one from my coat pocket.  Valentine is behind the wheel of his sedan.  Him and the Mooks are making their escape. 

Police cars flood the construction site, blocking Valentine’s escape. Valentine throws his car into reverse.  A shot comes from Valentine’s sedan.  The cops let loose a wall of led.  Valentine’s sedan rolls to a slow stop.

I stand up, with Claire behind me, and watch as the cops pull Valentine and Mook #1 out of the car and toss them to the ground.  Somehow, they managed to survive the barrage. The cops slap cuffs on them.  Mook #2 gets his lifeless body pulled from the car.

“It’s alright, honey,” I say to Claire.  She doesn’t say anything.  Her face is full of tears.  She’s shivering.   I put an arm around her and hold her close.

 I see Charlie Grace walking up.  Next to him is a detective I know.  Bledsoe.  Charlie stops and picks up the bag from where I dropped it.  Bledsoe walks up, looking down at the dead man by our feet.

“We’re going to need you to fill out a report on that one,” says Bledsoe, then looks up at me and Claire.  “We’ve got an ambulance coming for her,” he says.  Bledsoe looks like he’s on the same diet I am. 

“Where’s the jewels, Jack?” is the first thing Charlie says.  He’s emptied the trash out of the bag and holds it open for me to see.

I tell him where he can find them and what he can do with them.

Later, after I see Claire off to hospital, I meet Bledsoe and Charlie at the station to sign whatever papers they need me to sign.  That’s when I get the details of the whole thing.  It was all a set-up, just like I figured, with me as the patsy.

See, Charlie caught the job from an insurance company, and due to his connections on the street, he linked it to Valentine.  He put Valentine on a hook for the cops, but they wanted the whole crew.   That’s where I came in.  The plan was to nab them at the hotel after the drop-off.  Thanks to me, that drop-off never happened. 

“What about Claire?”

“Well, I didn’t figure on the part about Claire getting taken.  I’m sorry about that, Jack.  I also didn’t figure you losing the bag down in Hollywood.  But that part was just good luck for us.”

“Good luck?”

“Yeah, we got Rico out of that deal.  His prints were all over that bag and the jewels.  Gives us enough to place him at the scene.  Bledsoe’s been wanting Rico for a long time.”

“Glad I could help.”

Charlie pays me some of the insurance money for my troubles, I sign some paperwork, and I’m on my way. 

I get word later that Claire’s alright.  She was pretty shaken up, I guess.  I wouldn’t know, because she won’t see me or talk to me and I don’t blame her.  I stop off at the liquor store on the way back to the office.  It rains a little bit on the drive home.

                                                The End