Los Angeles Noir - Denise Hamilton [22]
“I think we can keep your dumbshit brother out of the slammer this time but you gotta get that Vegas bitch out of there,” Yippie said. “If Vargas finds out Cash is dealing again …”
Cravitz said he would, and told his friend he’d see him in the morning.
Cravitz took the streets home. Halloween decorations were up everywhere. Hollywood was crowded with phony vampires, angels, wolfmen, and movie stars.
Back home in View Park, he changed into his costume—Priest, from Superfly, replete with pimp hat, Jheri curl wig, platform shoes, polyester shirt, bell-bottom trousers, and rose-colored shades. Then he picked up Athena Powers, who was dressed as a sexy Belle Starr, with bells on her six guns and spurs, and starry skies painted across her sheer silk blouse.
That night the main ballroom at Satin Dolls became Ground Zero of Afro-Hollywood. The Flo Boyz played. At midnight Dwight Trible sang, the great jazz pianist Nate Morgan performed, and everyone joined in for “Happy Birthday, Quick!”
Finding his brother, Cravitz explained he needed a few more hours to decide. Cash never suspected he was already jacked.
Athena Powers and he danced until 2. Then she invited him back to her suite and Belle Starr easily convinced Superfly to break his fast on pussy and booze.
“Where you goin’?” Athena protested when Cravitz got up at 4 and changed back into his jeans and a funky shirt and strapped on his big gun.
“Got to check on a buddy,” Cravitz said.
“Can’t it wait?” she asked with a sly smile.
“Can’t,” Cravitz said simply.
They made love one more time and he was on the road to La Caja at 6.
3.
About 6:06 that morning, back in the safe house thirty miles north, undercover detective Yippie Calzone was awakened by whispers.
Quick as a cat, Yippie snatched up Esmeralda from the nightstand and turned.
In the flash of glass and buckshot that erupted through his window at that instant, Calzone witnessed the fiery unraveling of his final moment.
He had no time to say oh shit or oh fuck or goddamn or God bless or forgive me or what the hell or anything.
He tried to move, but his legs felt aflame. His big arms twitched and flopped against the bed. He gripped Esmeralda hard, and a shot rang out.
Esmeralda recoiled and banged against the nightstand. Yippie’s hand jerked flat, and Esmeralda, blood-splattered but voluptuous even in this light, laid upon his quivering right palm, her buxom body sparkling silver, her hair-trigger demurely cocked.
Yippie could dimly feel his own heartbeat; and then, faintly, the renewed whispers of his assailants.
Dogs barked. He heard a distant siren, the droning of helicopters.
He tried to move his fingers. They felt heavy and wet and hot. Just below them, he felt Esmeralda tingling, her body cool, waiting.
Lights went on up Orchid Street—on Sagebrush Road and Terra Vista, the next streets over. Neighbors came out onto their porches.
Still lurking at Yippie’s window, the killer could feel his own hot sweat, each drop a burning heartbeat. As for his heart, he felt it drumming in his chest, confident and strong.
He chuckled and stood up. He was dressed, as were his fleeing cohorts, in a ninja outfit.
“Butterbrains,” he muttered, watching them struggle over the back fence.
He could hear neighbors, slightly louder now, calling out in alarm.
The killer lifted the sawed-off shotgun through the jagged gaps in the wood and glass.
Three more blasts followed for good luck.
A curtain of fire lit the room.
Rooster-tails of splatter dripped down the walls.
Esmeralda slid from Yippie’s big fingers and clattered onto the floor.
The good cop was dead.
A dozen neighbors were milling around the front gate gossiping anxiously when Cravitz drove up twenty minutes later.
He fumbled with the keys, unlocked the gate, and hurried inside.
Unholstering his Beretta, Cravitz moved through the shadowy rooms and hallways. Then he went into Yippie’s bedroom. Ignoring the bed, Cravitz looked around at the shattered window, the floor covered with splinters and glass, the streams of blood and