HOLLYWOOD HANGOVER

                                                     HOLLYWOOD HANGOVER 

                                                              

by: Donald D. Shore

originally published as A Good Rain in eFiction magazine 10/16

I fish a half-smoked Marlboro from the ashtray and stare at the whiskey bottle. There’s nothing but residue inside.  Brown drops of rotgut.  I light the stale cigarette, my hands sweating. 

There’s a swallow left in the bottle.  A taste.  It wants me as bad as I want it. 

My phone vibrates on the desk.  I stub out the cigarette and check the number.  

“Hey, Charlie,” I say, my eyes going back to that beautiful bottle, the dregs of whiskey a golden brown. 

“Jack,” says the voice on the other end. “You still living in that office on west side?”

“You know I am, Charlie.” I want him to get to the point.  “What’s up?”

“I got a job for you.”

            “What kind of job?” 

            “It’s a good one, Jack.  Pay’s good. You’re the first guy I thought of.”

            “Cut the crap, Charlie.  What’s the job?”

            “I can’t talk about it over the phone, Jack. Come to the pier at noon.  I’ll bring the client. This is good money, Jack.  Show up.”

            “Yeah.”

            I hang up, wondering how I’m going to kill the next few hours.  They say the life of a drunk is a lonely life.  It’s not true.  You don’t realize how lonely you until you’re sober.

            Stumbling into the office bathroom, I wash up the best I can, put on a shirt and tie that might pass for clean, then sit down to catch my breath.  The bottle laughs at me.     

            I take the metro down to the pier. There’s a handful of people on the bus.  It stinks like urine and antiseptic.  A woman at the front looks around like she’s lost.  Other passengers avoid her panicked eyes with practiced ambivalence.   

            After the bus ride, I ask myself why I bothered getting here so early. I smoke a cigarette and lean over the pier’s railing, staring off across the ocean.  The flat expanse of blue seems endless. I count the boats, so I don’t think about whiskey.  I’d settle for a beer.  The edge of American civilization seems like the perfect place to drink a beer. 

            By the time Charlie shows, I’m three beers into a six-pack, sitting on a bench over-looking the ocean. 

            Charlie introduces me to the client.  He glances at the beer as we shake hands.  The client’s name is Jim Valentine.  He uses a lot of hair product.  Slick and stiff.  He wears dark sunglasses and doesn’t bother taking them off when we meet.    

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

            “Why don’t you do it?”

            Charlie stops for a second.  “I’m 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 at Valentine.  I can’t tell if he’s looking at me or my beer through his stupid sunglasses. I take a sip.

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

            His eyebrows arch, like he’s surprised to be included in the conversation.

            “I need you to pick up a package, Mr. Rogers.  A very important package.”

            “What is it?”

            “That’s not your business.  You just pick it up and drop it off.”

            “Then I don’t need to take the job,” I say.  “I don’t do mystery packages.”

            “Listen, Jack,” says Charlie.  “It’s an easy deal, see?  You just pick it up at the bus station and drop it at a hotel.  Won’t take an hour.  It pays good, Jack.  If you’re still living in your office, you should think before you say no.”

            I sip my beer, looking at Valentine.  He’s as laid back as a coke addict.   

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

            “Two-grand, Jack,” says Charlie.  He lets it sink in. 

I think of all the things I can do with two-grand.  That’s how I mess up.  Thinking about what I can do, instead of what I should do.  Charlie knows I’m hooked, so he reels me in. 

“Listen, Jack.  I’m your friend.  I wouldn’t screw you over.  Just pick up the package and deliver it to the Starlight Hotel on La Cienega.  Two g’s for an afternoon’s work.  Easy as that.”

            Even with the beer buzz, I know it’s wrong.

            “Which bus station?”
            Jim Valentine smiles.  I see my reflection in his sunglasses.            

            “For the locker at the bus station,” he says, handing me a key. “Remember, be at the hotel with my package by four o’clock.”

            “Sure,” I say. 

            Valentine looks at Charlie. Nervous about trusting a drunk.  I don’t blame him.

            “Thanks again, Jack,” says Charlie, shaking my hand.  “You’re really helping me out.”                 “Just have my money,” I tell him. 

            The whole thing smells like a hot pile of turds, but I’m too hungover to care.  I head to the bus stop. It’s a hot day. I’m sweating beer and last night’s whiskey.  I should have driven my car.

The bus is packed. The stench and heat make me nauseous.  I see the same bewildered lady with the lost eyes, still riding the bus.  Just one of millions lost in L.A.

Claire is waiting for me when I get to the office, standing beside my car.  Pretty as ever. She has one of those faces.  It’s in the eyes. 

            “I knocked,” she says as I approach.

            “I was out.  Working.”

            We stand there for a minute.  She caught me off guard, and we both feel it.   

            “What do you need?” I ask, to break the tension.

            “My phone charger,” she says.  She’s sealed herself off from me.  Women do that.  Like severing a cord. “I left it in your office.”

            “Come on up.”

            She follows me up the flight of stairs.  I open the door and let her in.  It’s the last place she wants to be.  

            “You could have just bought another one, you know.”

            She hits me with, “That’s why you’re always broke, Jack.”

            I hit back. “I’m broke because I’m a drunk. Remember?”

            “Yes,” she says, reaching for the charger, “I remember.”

            We stand there for a minute, looking at one another. I reach for her hand and she takes it away.

            “I have to go.”

            “Someone waiting?”

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

                                                                        ***

            I park at the bus station and light a smoke, watching every face coming and going.  My hands are sweating by the time I crush out the cigarette and head inside.

            People from all over the world go through the Downtown bus station.  Desperate faces.  Anxious faces.  Vultures circling.  I go straight to the locker area, not even looking over my shoulder, like I have all the reason in the world to be there.   

I put the key in the locker and turn.  The door pops open.  I expect a voice behind me, telling me to put my hands up.  I take the bag, slip it over my shoulder, and shut the locker.  I turn around and start walking, avoiding eye contact with anyone I pass. 

Five minutes later I’m fighting traffic on the 101, heading into Hollywood.  I check the rearview, but no blue lights in sight.  I light a cigarette and head for West L.A. to drop the bag off.

            Stupidity has held mankind back for eons.  I don’t foresee it letting up anytime soon.  I’m not thinking about the curse of the human condition when I pull into Hollywood.  Instead, I’m thinking about a bar I know off Santa Monica Boulevard.

            I pull into the Ace of Spades parking lot and shut the car off.  I’ve got two hours to kill before the deadline.  Leaves plenty of time to calm my nerves.  Take the edge off. 

            I drop the bag on the passenger side floorboard.  You’d have to look to see it.  Besides, I won’t be inside for long.  Just a drink, maybe two, to take the edge off. I need this. Just a drink or two.      

            About an hour and a half later I come out to find my passenger-side window smashed. A pile of shattered glass on the pavement.  I think it’s a hallucination at first.  I want it so bad to be one.  I open the car door.  The satchel is gone.  I turn around and vomit onto the asphalt.

            I pull myself together, holding onto the car door for support.  I look around, in case the thief is hanging out, waiting for me.  There’s no one.  Just the cars in the lot.  I curse and slam the door. Glass sprinkles like ice against the pavement. 

            I wake up and my head is swimming.  I sit up on the couch in my office.  My eyes hurt.  For the moment I’ve forgotten everything. I’m sitting on the floor of the bathroom, hugging the toilet, as the day comes back to me.  I want to throw up again, just so I don’t have to think, but I’m done.  I hear the phone vibrating in the office.  I get to my feet, walk back to the couch, and fish the phone from the cushions.  I don’t want to answer, but I do.

            “Where the hell are you, Jack?” Charlie’s words chatter out like a typewriter.  “You were supposed to deliver the package six hours ago.  You know what’s going to happen if you screw this up, Jack?  You’re dead.  I’m dead.  Everyone we know is dead.  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 my way to the hotel,” I say.

            “Don’t play with me, Jack. You have the package or not?”

            “No.”  I’m still drunk.  Charlie’s words are funny to me.  Like it’s a joke. 

            “Where’s the package?”

            I take a breath.  It’s not a joke. Not a funny one, anyway.  I sit down and look at the window.  I can’t see through the blinds, but I can tell it’s dark outside. 

“I lost it, Charlie.”

            The phone stays silent so long I think I lost him.  His voice comes back.  Restrained anger, like this can be fixed if he keeps his temper in check.  I want to tell him he’s wrong. 

            “How did you lose the bag, Jack?”

            “I stopped at a bar, Charlie.  When I came out, my window was smashed, and the bag was gone.”

            “You know who Jim Valentine is, Jack?  He’s a connected man.  Deep connections, Jack.  The kind of connections that can wipe us out like we never existed.”

            “I can get it back, Charlie.”  I feel bad for Charlie.  He used to be a friend. “Just buy me a few hours.  I’ll find it.”

            Another long silence.  “I’ll see what I can do, Jack. These aren’t the type of men you can piss off.  You can’t just say sorry.  You have to get that bag back.”

            “I will, Charlie,” I say, not sure how to fulfill this promise.

            I sit there for a minute until I hear feet coming up the steps outside my office.  I stand up to peek out the blinds, as someone pounds on the door.  A second later, they kick it in. 

Two big mooks the size of gorillas storm inside.  I launch myself at them, drunk enough to think I stand a chance.   

            I don’t even get in a lick.  The one in front sends a fist my way, catching me on the chin.  My world spins and I crumple to the floor like a little girl’s rag doll left out in the rain. He lifts me off the floor and tosses me on the couch.  The two of them are stand over me. I’m just a little rat to them.  They wait 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 again.

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

            “That would have been my guess.”  Mook #2 belts me across the face. 

            “Mr. Valentine is pissed,” says Mook #1.  “You know what happens when Mr. Valentine gets pissed?”

            Before I answer, Mook #2 slaps me again. I wipe the blood away and give him the evil eye. He’s got one of those super-hero chins.  The big kind you want to punch.

            “When Mr. Valentine gets pissed, people get hurt,” says Mook #1. 

He goes on about how I shouldn’t have pissed off Mr. Valentine and how I’m going to be sorry.  I’m not paying attention anymore.  I’m staring at Mook #2, waiting for him to try another slap.  Then Mook #1 gets my attention.  He shows me a picture on his phone.  Holding it close, so I can see.  A picture of Claire. She’s sitting in a chair. Some dark room I don’t recognize. Mook #1 smiles. 

“You touch her, I’ll kill you.”

Mook #2 doesn’t slap me this time.  He slams his fist into my temple.  Mook #1 puts his face inches from mine. 

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

Mook #1 nods to Mook #2.  Mook #2 pulls me back to a sitting position. 

“You got ‘till midnight, Rogers,” says Mook #1.

After they leave, I go into the bathroom and wash my face. I was a good detective before the whiskey got me. I take off my bloodstained shirt and fish another one off the floor. I put on a tie and a jacket.  That other guy could fix this.  He was good at his job.  He had natural talent.  I’m going to be that other guy again. 

It’s late in the evening, and I’m back at the Ace of Spades.  No one bothered cleaning up the glass.  Probably afraid the same thing would happen to their car.  I walk around, but there’s nothing to see.   

Inside, the same bartender is working.  He doesn’t say anything.  To him I’m just another drunk. 

“My car was broken into earlier.  Right outside, in your parking lot.”

“Sorry to hear that,” he says, with no real concern.  “They get anything?”

“Yeah. They did.”

He leans against the bar and shakes his head.  “You call the cops?”

“I don’t have time for cops.”  I fish a pack of Marlboros from my pocket and light one.  “You got cameras in the parking lot?”

“You can’t smoke in here.”

I look at him and blow smoke.  “You got cameras out there or not?”

“Yeah, we got cameras out there.” 

“How about letting me see the tapes?”

“You’re a real asshole, you know that?”

“I’ve been told.”

“Come on.”

He takes me inside a cramped back office. Room enough for a desk and computer.  A couple of filing cabinets.  The bartender squeezes into the chair behind the desk and starts typing.  

“Alright,” he says.  “This is it.”

I move around to stand behind him.  I see my car on the computer screen.  He fast-forwards until we see movement.  The footage is black and white and grainy. 

“There,” I say.  “Stop it right there.”

The image is worse when the footage is paused.   

“Alright. Play it.”

He hits play and we watch as a blurry man walks past the passenger side of my car. He goes off screen for a moment, then comes back holding something I can’t make out, and uses it to smash the passenger-side window. I watch as the man reaches inside and takes the satchel.  The quality of the video doesn’t offer much else.

“Well, what do you think?” says the bartender, bored with my problem.  “You can call the cops and tell them I have this footage, I guess.”

“I don’t need the cops,” I say. “Play this back a couple of times.”

“Sure,” he says.  He’s got better things to do, but 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, and wearing dark clothes.  The footage is so bad I can’t tell if he’s black, white, or Hispanic.  He does have long hair.  Maybe dreadlocks.   

“Alright,” I say to the bartender.  He’s ready to get back to work tending his empty bar.  I don’t blame him.  No one likes getting sucked into another person’s problems.      

Back in the parking lot, I try to feel which way the wind’s blowing.  It’s ten-thirty and I’m running out of options.  I light a cigarette and leave my car, hoofing it up Vine towards Hollywood.  I’ve got an hour and a half to make something happen. 

My phone vibrates.

I answer with, “I’m working on it, Charlie.”

“You’re running out of time, Jack,” says Charlie.  His voice is rushed and nervous. 

“Following a lead right now.”

“Better be a good lead.”

“It’s solid, Charlie.  Trust me.”

“Yeah,” says Charlie.  I know whatever trust Charlie had in me has been thrown out the window.  “Just get it back.”  His voice has softened.  He’s probably given up on me and started arrangements to leave town.  That’s what I would do, if my life was in the hands of a drunk who screwed a simple drop-off job. 

“What’s in the bag, Charlie? It would be easier to find if I knew what I was looking for.”

“Just get the bag back, Jack,” says Charlie, and he hangs up. 

My hands are shaking. I’m craving a drink so bad I feel nauseous. At Sunset and Vine I see him.  Huddled in a mass of street punks, beneath the yellow light of a streetlamp outside a stretch of tattoo parlors and vintage clothing stores. A dark dressed man with a head full of dreadlocks.  I don’t see the bag, but this is the guy.  I can feel it.

He sees me and runs.  Pushing my way through the crowd, I chase after him.  He cuts up Sunset, through the lot of a condemned motel. He hops a tall wooden fence like an Olympian athlete.  I hit the fence like an out of work motivational speaker.  We both hit the ground running.  Backyards.  Alleyways.  He stops and spins around.  Something flashes in his hand.  I crash into him and we hit the ground. 

The blade slices my arm.  My chest.  I grab his cutting wrist and pin it to the ground.  My fist comes down on his face.  He drops the knife.  I stand him up and slam him against the wall.  

“Where’s the bag, asshole?”

He’s dazed. His head wobbles on his neck.  I worry I beat him too hard.  I get over it when his eyes open and he stares into my face and smiles.  

“Where’s the bag?”   

“I ain’t got no bag, man,” he says. I plant a fist in his stomach.  His body folds over and I force him back against the wall.

“You want to try that again?”

“You can’t leave something like that in your car, man. That’s just asking for it.”

I give him another punch to the gut to make myself feel better. 

“Who’d you sell it to?”

“Guy named Rico.  Stay at the Mark Twain.  You find him on the stoop.”

“What did he give you for it?”

He looks at me.  I see the lie forming in his eyes.  I slap the train of thought out of his head.  “What did he give you for it?”

“Five hundred.”

I shake him down and pull a roll of bills out of his pocket and put it in mine.  I give him a hard knee to the groin and let him fold to the ground.  I pick his blade off the pavement.  A folding razor, like something a pimp would have shoved in his back-pocket.  I just hope the blade is cleaner than it looks.  

The Mark Twain’s not far.  I drive the few blocks it takes to get there.  It’s a seedy joint.  Three street hoods watch as I park at the curb.  Their eyes on me as I get out and walk toward them.  One sits on the steps, a forty-ounce bottle wrapped in a paper sack in one hand and blunt wrapped joint in the other.  The other two stand sentry over him.  I stop in front of the one sitting.  He looks up at me, and I say, “Rico?”

A smile spreads across his face as he looks up through the haze of marijuana smoke.  “Who you?”

“I’m the owner of the bag you bought off dreadlocks.  I came to buy it back.”

He looks back and forth at his boys.  “Check this out,” he says and laughs. 

I plant my foot in his face hard enough to crack his skull against the concrete steps.  One of his boys goes for a weapon.  I put my fist in his face.  He falls back a step and I give him another one.  A kick to Rico’s ribs keeps him down. 

The boy on the other side has something in his hand. I lunge and pull him down with my body weight.  I pound his face with my fist.  I grab him by the hair and ram his head into the concrete until he stops struggling.  My hands are warm with blood.  Someone kicks me, but I ignore it.  I come up with the boy’s weapon.  It’s a cheap thirty-eight.  I make sure they see it.

They stand frozen, their drug addled minds struggling to come to terms with what just happened.  “Put your hands where I can see them, or I’ll blow your heads off.”

They do what I tell them.  I pat them down as Rico lays on the ground moaning.  I pull another pistol off the other sentry, and one from Rico.  Little rinky-dink things big enough to put a hole in a man.  I pocket the dime store pistols and tell them to stand there and shut up. Anger flares in their eyes, but they do what they’re told. 

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

“I’m going to tell you one more time, Rico.  I came to buy back the bag.  You can either sell it to me, or I can blow your brains out and take it.  Your choice.”

“Alright, man, alright,” he says.  His breath smells of booze and blood.  I grab him by the collar and pull him to his feet.  I turn back to his boys.  “You two scat,” I tell them with a wave of the pistol.  They don’t look at Rico.  They turn and run.  There’s no loyalty in this crew.  

“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 to quicken his pace.  Rico leads me up a flight of stairs to his room.  Inside, I see the satchel sitting on the bed.  It’s unzipped and empty.  I give Rico a whack on the back of the head with the pistol.  He doesn’t go down, but he feels it. 

“Where’s the merchandise,” I demand.

“Sold,” is all he says.

“Get it back,” I say.

He smiles, rubbing the back of his head.  “There ain’t no getting it back.”

He sees it in my eyes. 

“You don’t know what was in the bag, do you?” he says, like it’s a joke and he’s the only one who gets the punchline. 

It sends me over the edge. I backhand him to the face with the pistol.  He steps, sends a punch my way, catching me in the chin.  The world spins for a second.  I feel his hand going for the pistol. I pop him one in the face.  He keeps the struggle up, and I pop him again.  I launch a knee between his legs.  He goes down on the bed.    

“You can kill me, but we both know you a dead man too.  I’ll be seeing you in hell.”

I want to tell him we’re in hell already and it doesn’t get much worse than this.  Instead, I keep the pistol on him and grab the bag. 

“I hate to be you,” he says.

“You and me both, Rico,” I say, backing out of the room.  “I see you open this door before I’m gone, I start blasting.”

Rico keeps up the street-tough glare.  I shut the door and rush down the stairs, through the lobby, and back to my car.  I get half a block down the road and the anger and frustration bubbles out like a pressure cooker.  I pound on the steering wheel and yell every curse I’ve ever heard in my life.

I drive back towards my office because I have nowhere else to go.  Halfway there, I get a phone call. It’s Jim Valentine. 

“You got my bag?” 

“Where’s Claire?”

There’s a long pause.  “She’s here,” he says.  “Don’t worry, my boys are entertaining her.”

“You hurt her, I’ll kill you and everyone you know.”

“You have my bag?”

“I’ve got your bag,” I say, leaving out the part about it being empty.

“Then there’s no problem. Meet me at Sepulveda and Pico.  There’s a construction site.  You’ll see it.  Pull in there and we’ll make the exchange.”

He pauses, giving me time for a rebuttal I suppose, but my mind is too exhausted for repartee. 

“You try anything,” he says, “anything at all, and I’ll ruin this pretty girl’s face.”

“Let me talk to her,” I demand, as if I have any leverage at all.

Another pause. Then, “Jack?”

“Claire.” Her name is all I get out before the cold, ugly voice returns.

“You have thirty minutes,” Valentine says.  The line clicks dead.

I curse again and beat the steering wheel.  Hot, dry Los Angeles air blows through the missing passenger side window.  Thirty minutes doesn’t give me much time. 

Halfway there I make a call. 

“Charlie,” I say, when he picks up.

“I hope you got that bag, Jack.”
            “What was in the bag, Charlie?”

“Dammit, Jack.”

“I’ve got the bag, Charlie,” I say, sounding mean and desperate, because that’s just what I am.  “I need to know what was in it.”

“Jesus, Jack.  If you’ve lost the merchandise, we can kiss our asses goodbye.”

“They have Claire, Charlie. I need to know what was in the bag.”

There’s a long pause as I swerve through traffic, narrowly avoiding several head on collisions. 

“Jewels, Jack,” Charlie tells me, his voice low, as if someone might be listening.  “Jewels from a heist Valentine and his boys pulled.  That’s all I know.  I can’t believe I trusted you with this, Jack.”

I say, “Next time you need a patsy, call someone else.” 

I hang up and toss the phone onto the seat. Cars are backed up for a mile on the exit ramp.  I don’t even slow down.  Hoping there’s no cars in my path, I swerve into the emergency lane and peel off the ten, heading down Sepulveda.  I’ve got ten minutes.

I spot the construction site at Pico and Sepulveda and pull over to the curb.  There’re two cars beyond the chain link fence.  I dig around the floorboards, grab an empty liquor bottle and a bunch of trash, tossing it all in the bag and zip it closed. I put one of my new pistols in my sock, one in the front of my belt, and the other in my inside coat pocket. 

My hands are shaking. I search the car for another bottle of liquor, maybe one I’ve forgotten about, but there’s nothing.  I’ve got a minute left.  I pull the car slowly into the construction site. I’ve got cotton balls in my mouth and my heart is beating like a woodpecker on crack.  I pick up the phone again, holding it so the light doesn’t show. 

“Yeah,” a tired voice says from the other end.

“Detective Blesso, this is Jack Rogers.  Get over to the construction site at Pico and Sepulveda.  There’s a kidnapping in progress.”   I rattle the words off as quick as I can so Blesso can’t get in a question I don’t have an answer for.  A wave of dizziness comes over me.  I don’t know if its withdrawals or loss of blood. I don’t have time for either one. 

I stop the car twenty feet from the parked sedans and kill the lights.  I see silhouettes inside both cars.  Two men climb out of one sedan and another man gets out of the second. The first two men step towards me. Mook #1 and Mook #2. 

“Where’s the bag, Rogers?”  says the man who climbed out of the second car.  It’s Jim Valentine. 

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

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

My eyes cut to the Mooks.  They’ve inched closer.  I reach in the car and pull out the bag, holding it up for Valentine. 

“Show me the girl,” I say, trying to sound tough. 

Valentine motions to the car.  I hear the click of the door and another man steps out, pulling Claire by the arm.  She tries to run towards me, but he holds onto her.  I see the dark gleam of a pistol in his hand.  

“Toss the bag over,” says Valentine. 

I toss the bag back into the car.  “Her first,” I say. 

His voice is barely controlled rage.  “Get the bag boys.”

The two Mooks step forward and I pull the pistol.  They stop cold and glance back at their boss.  

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

The Mooks step forward, reaching for their own pistols. I fire a shot over their heads and they duck.  I rush past them, towards Valentine, and fire.  The shot cracks the sedan’s windshield. Claire struggles.  The man holding her has his pistol high, waiting for word from Valentine to finish her off.  I pop a shot his way to keep him off balance.  Shots come from behind me.  I feel a bullet rip past me.  I turn and pop another shot off at the Mooks.  Sirens.  They’re distant, but close enough to give me hope. 

“Kill her!” Valentine orders. 

He makes for his car.  Claire screams and I run towards her.  She’s on her knees and her captor has his pistol at her temple.  I pray my aim is steady. I fire.  The bullet takes him in the head.  Blood splatters Claire’s face and the man crumples.  I close the distance between us, the Mooks firing at me.  I grab Claire, shielding her from the incoming shots.  Bullets pepper the earth around us.  The sirens grow closer.  I toss the pistol and pull the one from my coat pocket. 

Valentine is behind the wheel of his sedan.  He pulls up next to my car and stops. 

“Get the bag,” he orders the Mooks.  

I grab Claire, hauling her shivering body to the rear of the Mook’s sedan. 

“It’s alright, baby,” I say and hold her tight, hoping it’s not just another empty promise.

Car doors slam. Valentine and the Mooks pull out in Valentine’s sedan.  They make it to the exit before his break lights are drowned out by flashing blue and reds.  I thank a God I only believe in when the mood hits me.

“It’s alright, baby.  Everything’s alright, now,” I say into Claire’s ear, so she can hear me over the sirens. 

Valentine throws his car into reverse. One of the Mooks fires at the cops. Shots pour out from the cop cars.  Valentine’s sedan rolls to a slow stop, bullets popping glass and steel.  I stand up, watching the cops surround the sedan.  They pull Valentine and one of the Mooks out and throw them on the ground.  The other Mook, I’m not sure if its #1 or #2, is pulled out from the passenger seat.  His body is limp and lifeless. 

A short while later, Detective Blesso comes over.  He checks the dead man with his brains blown out.  I hand over the pistols.  He looks at me and Claire, who’s still huddled in shock.  He gets on his radio and calls for an ambulance. 

“What’s this all about, Jack?” says Blesso.  His face of chipped clay looks tired.  He’s on the same diet as me, lack of sleep and an overdose of stress.

“Like I told you on the phone, Blesso,” I say.  “They kidnapped Claire.  They tried to ransom her off.  I didn’t have the money.  So, here we are.”

“Here we are.”  He shakes his head.  “You’ve got a lot to answer for,” he says.  “That dead body for one, and reports of you tearing through Hollywood and assaulting people for another.”

“I’ll fill you in later,” I say.  “Right now, Claire needs attention.”

He looks at me with eyes that see more than they let on. They soften as he moves them down to Claire.  “I’ve got an ambulance coming,” he says.

At the station I give Blesso pretty much the same answers, feeding him a line about how they kidnapped Claire to force me to find the bag for them.  The bag turned up empty and things went bad.  He buys it at a discounted rate and sends me on my way. 

Claire spends the night at the hospital for observations.  They say she’s fine, just shaken up.  She won’t see me, and I don’t blame her.  I head to the office, stopping off at Gino’s Liquors to get my late-night dinner of whiskey, courtesy of the five-hundred bucks I pulled off of Dreadlocks. 

They say a man shouldn’t drink alone.  I don’t believe that.  I think it’s better to drink alone.  That way, no one gets hurt.

                                                            The End