Los Angeles Noir - Denise Hamilton [107]
“Get back here, you fucking coward!” I hear when she gets outside, and I keep sprinting, secure in my assumption that she’s not crazy enough to open fire on the street.
The first shot hits the car parked in front of mine, and I dig in my pocket for my keys, then fumble with them for what feels like about a minute and a half before I manage to open the Saturn. I haven’t got the door closed yet when I turn the engine over, and the next shot shatters my driver’s side window. Wetting my pants, I say a silent prayer of thanks that I took a dump before I left Burberry’s. Chugging into reverse I jump the curb, and then I ram it into gear and make a U-turn, swiping an SUV, the passenger-side mirror making a horrible scraping sound against it. In the rearview I can see her standing there in the middle of the street, taking aim, and I swerve to my right as she fires again. It misses me by a mile.
The cell is back on Gary’s kitchen floor and there are hardly pay phones in L.A. anymore, not in this kind of neighborhood anyway. But there’s a supermarket at Sunset and Via de la Paz, and on a hunch I pull into the lot and find a pair of them mounted next to the doors. My engine is still running when I make the call to 911, and I can hear a siren coming from the south. When the operator asks me the nature of my emergency, I’m momentarily at a loss. I tell her Gary’s address and she says they’ve already got a prowl car on the way to the street after reports of shots.
Tongue-tied, I manage to get across that they’ll need an ambulance too, and that an armed, dangerous, and crazy woman is probably on the premises, cranked to the gills. “She’s an actress,” I add, in case additional precautions need to be taken.
After hanging up I slump against the wall, illuminated by my headlights, the breeze soothing on my wet pants front. I wonder how long until the sun comes up, and in the distance to the east I hear another siren approach, this one of a slightly different timbre than the first. I can feel the tension start to drain from my shoulders, and I put my weight back onto my feet just as I catch sight of a vaguely familiar, battered red Corolla pulling into the lot and heading toward me, the face behind the wheel bearing down on mine, jaws clenched so tight they’re bulging, and all I can think is how pretty she still looks.
KINSHIP
BY BRIAN ASCALON ROLEY
Mar Vista
As I pulled into my driveway I saw my cousin Veronica sitting on the bungalow porch steps with her face buried in her hands. She heard my shoes snapping acorns on the path and looked up, stood, and came toward me. Her tank top revealed the butterfly tattoo on her shoulder. A rolled-up mat stuck out of her satchel. I tossed her my windbreaker: cool damp ocean air was coming up the street. I thought maybe she’d come over after yoga in nearby Venice to see if I wanted to go surfing—something we used to do as teenagers, on afternoons after she tutored me in math—but her eyes were bloodshot.
What’s wrong? I said. I noticed something blue on the side of her face and moved her hair aside. Did he hit you?
She flinched. No.
Your face is blue.
I told you, it wasn’t him.
Who, then?
Please, Tomas. I didn’t come over about this.
I crossed my arms. I asked her to explain. She glanced down as she fingered her satchel strap and told me she’d come to talk about her boy, Emerson.
She said, Manny went over and tried to confront the bully’s father, and he got beat up after carpool. Only a few blocks from school.
Some kid has been bullying Emerson? I said. My hands fisted, the pulse hot in my knuckles.
Yeah.
How long has this been going on?
Two months, I think. That’s when we started seeing bruises.
And you didn’t tell me?
Sorry, she said.
I bit my lip, tasted warm blood, looked down my street. In the June overcast, no shadows cast on the silvery asphalt, but the glare was