Los Angeles Noir - Denise Hamilton [114]
* * *
The boys’ club behind the church building used to be a martial arts studio. It still smelled of Japanese floor pads, bare feet, must, and male sweat. It smelled like an old futon. The blindfolded man sniffed at the change in smell, the warmer temperature. He jerked when I shut the metal door and snapped the lock. I sat him on a chair in the center of the room and bound him there.
I’m going to take off your blindfold now, I told him, after I flipped over the only sign with our congregation’s name on it.
From behind, I pulled off the bandana. He looked around and said, Where am I?
But I was gone. I was in a hallway behind mirrored oneway glass we had installed to observe the group sessions and recovery groups that met in that room.
I turned to Manny, who sat next to me on an aluminum chair against the wall; watching Harley’s father through the one-way glass.
Is that him?
Yeah.
Okay, I said, and pulled the ice pick out of my satchel. Place the tip of the blade on the soft part below the kneecap. Make sure you really punch it through the cartilage. The knee’s like tree bark. If you don’t get below the surface, the tree doesn’t die.
Manny looked at me. You don’t actually expect me to do this … ?
I do.
He crossed his arms.
Do it for Emerson, I said.
What’s all this to you?
In my family—the Laurels—we protect our own, I said.
I held the blade out to him, but he shook his head. I walked into the other room. I knew Manny would be watching from behind the mirrored glass. Harley’s father looked up at me.
Who are you? he said.
I kneeled before him, my face close to his own. His chair rattled as his bound hands struggled. I touched his cheek, brushed it softly.
Do you have a son? I asked.
Yes.
Do you love him?
Yes.
I am a father too, I said loudly enough for Manny to hear, and then I reached down and stuck him.
THE HOUR WHEN THE SHIP COMES IN
BY ROBERT FERRIGNO
Belmont Shore
One good deed … One good deed is all it takes to get a man killed. One good deed, one step in front of the other. Yancy staggered down Pomona toward the beach, straightened his shoulders and kept walking. Not far. Pomona ran parallel to Alamitos Bay, close enough to smell the waffle cones at the ice cream parlor on Second Street … and the strawberries. He had stopped for a Jamba Juice before they hit the house on Pomona. Mason had complained, eager to get started, but Yancy insisted. A large Strawberry-Kiwi Zinger with protein powder and spirulina. No idea what that shit did, but why take a chance. Full of antioxidants and nutrients specially formulated to increase longevity … live forever, the sign said. Yancy laughed, and pain shuddered through him.
Beautiful day in Belmont Shore. The yuppie jewel of Long Beach. Late afternoon, the hard chargers on the freeway now, heading home from the job. They spent so much for the Belmont Shore address, but they were hardly ever home. Working late at the job. Cardio classes at the gym. Cursing their way through traffic, radiators boiling over. Spinning the wheel, faster and faster, hamsters in Porsches. Beep-beep.
Three young mothers wheeled their babies down the street. On their way back from the bay. Towels wrapped around their waists, breasts cupped high and tight in their bright bikini tops. Coconut oil glistening. Talk, talk, talk, while their babies lolled in the shade of the strollers, hands next to their sleepy pink faces. Husbands on the way home. Mexican maid cooking dinner. Just enough time for a yoga class.
One of the wives looked at Yancy, saw him watching. She smiled, and Yancy smiled back. He stepped onto the grass, let them pass. Half tempted to bow. Some sweeping flourish. Probably fall on his face.