Authors: Barry Crowther
Tags: #Mystery, #Crime, #Hard-Boiled, #Detective, #Detective Series
Been having a party?
Something like that. Got him?
Pligrims bodiless voice drifts from somewhere.
I have him.
Don't do anything until I give you the signal.
Dallas' face becomes serious. I say.
If I see your hands or fingers move into anything other than a peace sign. Casper my ghostly friend will slide you on fucking ice with these other assholes. Got that?
Dallas nods. His hand moves into a symbol that's hardly visible. I understand the code. Stand down. Do not fire. I say.
Good boy.
You look like shit.
Should see the other guy.
Very funny.
I'm here all week.
I think you've been here long enough.
Not quite.
What's next? Me dead too?
I shrug. Dallas is cool. He can accept death. His code is good. My code is good. I see it in his eyes. He lives his code. I live my code. Does not talk about the code. Lives it. I lower my pistol and say.
How did you know I was here?
He smiles.
The cell phone. You don't think I would let you run around our beautiful city leaving a wake with out me knowing where you were headed.
Smart
GPS built into a chip near the battery.
Cool. What's Yama got to do with me being ransomed?
Dallas looks a little confused. Shrugs.
First I heard of any ransom.
I point with the barrel of the gun toward the body of the Old Cop and Largo. My friend Largo. I say.
These major league ass holes were planning on keeping me here. I think murdering me once my boss --
Mikey.
You know him. Okay. Paid them 5 million dollars.
Dallas gives a low whistle.
I smile. Say.
Thought I was worth more to be honest.
Don't we all. Listen. You look pretty banged up. Yama wants you back in one piece.
Yama wants me?
He's heard something. He acted fast, and as you know that's not in his nature. He likes to contemplate things. But whoever asked him to do this changed the plan.
I nod.
I think I know. Largo. He knew or could sense that I knew something was wrong. It was the way we looked at each other before we went to the hotel in Hollywood. Something wasn't right. I could tell he was involved somewhere. Someone from Chicago, inside our own team had to be part of this. He never said a word, but he knew I knew. Well, you can get me to the ER.
I move a little toward Dallas. Stop. Say.
Pilgrim, it's off. He's good.
I don't see or hear anything. It's as if Pilgrim was never there. I'm in pain. Incredible pain. I'm sure Pilgrim is here but soon he will be gone. Dallas acts as my crutch. Hauls me to the elevator. My head throbs. My eyelashes throb. My body feels like an explosion of a million stars. It aches in every cell. They flash and explode behind my closed eyelids. Fists clench. Teeth grind.
Elevator descends. Mercedes appear. Surround me. Hold me. Fade to black.
NO ONE HERE GETS OUT ALIVE
The morphine haze is beginning to wear off. I see a nurse. Masculine. Too much facial hair. She could be...
The male nurse removes the drip from the vein beneath my biceps muscle. Checks the bag of fluids. Rolls the plastic slider. Replaces the catheter. I feel none of this. Between sleeping and having various medications imbibed my mind discusses Largo, the Cops, Santana, Yama, Dallas, the Colombians, the Californian girls and Carly. My mom was in this mix somewhere but I can only imagine her now as a dream. As a construct of my imagination. The room where I am is clean and functional. It is empty my clothes must be in the closet. A cage covers my left foot. Every so often a nurse enters checks beneath the sheet cloaking the cage. Makes notes in a steel clipboard unsmiling. Looks at me. I make no move to be friendly mostly pacified by the large ingestion of pain meds. Hangs the clipboard back on the bed. Leaves. Time drags in these places. I have lost track of days and weeks or dates or time or am or pm. Like the inside of a Vegas Casino. I even wish I could see the bone white moon or blue blue sky. Some nights they share the same sky.
As I drift back into my torpid sleep the door to my room opens. I don't move. I don't care. I listen and wait for the sheet to be lifted and the clipboard to be checked. A voice.
You still alive?
I creak my left eye open slightly.
Just
Dallas drags a chair and sits beside the bed.
Nursing staff say you can start physiotherapy real soon. Tomorrow maybe.
Don't feel like I can.
You can.
He smiles. I say.
You killed Santana
Dallas doesn't comment just scans the room. He seems to admire the quality of the care. I repeat.
Why? That's what I don't get. Yama claims he was a big earner. I can't see him giving that order.
Who said there was an order?
You acting alone? Very un-military
I'm an on-staff private security consultant. I have to act in the best interests of my client. Sometimes the client doesn't know what's best for them.
I lie heavy into my pillow. Dallas stands and walks to the closet. He opens the door and removes some of my clothes. The print shirt and the jeans. He holds up a white plastic carrier pulls out a jacket, a windbreaker, and clean jeans. Nike sneakers. A T-shirt. It has a logo on the front: Laguna Beach Life Guard. It makes me smile. He folds them and places them on the chair. Says.
It's time to leave.
I thought physiotherapy was next?
My client needs to ensure you get on a plane before you are mobile. And before any other shit happens.
I nod. I understand.
Dallas peels back the sheets. I rip out the drip and rub a cotton ball over the bloody puncture. Dallas helps me. Slowly. He has honor. He has code.
We laugh trying to get the blue jeans to slide over the inflated pigs bladder that used to act as my foot. I grab a pair of scissors that had been left by the nurse and snip off the left leg of the jeans. It created a strange cutoff Levi combo. I say.
Get me a wheelchair.
Dallas goes into the corridor looking for a chair. He wheels it back into the room. I take a seat. Sweat already stains the pits and nape of the T-shirt. I sling the windbreaker around my shoulders. A nurse approaches.
Don't remember you being signed out?
I haven't. I've decided to leave.
She has a look of mild concern. Raises her eyebrows. She says.
Wait here a second.
She walks into a room. She returns and hands me a small bottle with a few Tylonol-Codine rattling inside.
For the pain.
Thanks.
I smile. She smiles then wanders to a nurse at a station.
Dallas wheels me to the pharmacy I already have a script for Vicodin. The pharmacy fills the order. Strong pain killer. CoCodamol in effervescent. The pharmacist gives me a consultation on how to take the narcotics. Dallas wheels me away whilst the guy is still talking. Dallas says.
You know how to take pills.
We get into a nice elevator. Hit 1. Doors close slowly. Dallas doesn't speak. Seems impatient. The lights count down. The doors slide open. I am pushed into the marble entrance and towards the exit. Outside there is a fountain. I feel a movement in my belly. Deep in my belly. A snake in my belly moves. I have felt it before and it knows me. It knows danger is near.
I can see the relentless sun bleaching the sidewalk. Patients and visitors pass each other. Oblivious to each others need or pain. In the open I feel the air is hot. It was cool inside. Dallas presses on. As we move to the parking garage I feel my body recoil shrink against the sun. Is Dallas pushing me into a furnace. I say.
How long have I been in there?
Four days.
The Escalade with the blacked out windows pulls around into a bay reserved for an ambulance. A security guard approaches. The passenger rolls down the window. With a look and a few well chosen words the guard nods and walks away from the vehicle. Two men climb out. Ex-Military. Help me hop into the back door. The pain in my leg and hip is unreal. Toothache multiplied by a million times. Panting with tension I wait at the door gripping the upper handle. I stare up into the blue blue sky. The unbearably blue sky. So beautiful I am forced to turn away. I can show no weakness now. As helpful as Dallas seems he works for Baba Yama. His client. In my comatose state I have some how constructed a version of the last days events. This makes me believe weird shit. Makes me believe that Mikey and Yama knew Largo was up to some bad shit with the cops. I pop a Vicodin. Make me believe they wanted me somehow removed. A problem to be erased. Eradicated. I still find this belief difficult. If my belief is true then I will never make it to LAX. If I am wrong and my drug fuelled coma state was just a mental fuck up then I will be back in a cold stiff wind in my home town soon.
Doors clip shut. My journey is either beginning or ending. Already the people in the SUV are beginning to fade. One of the Mercs, a small muscular man beside me makes small talk. I interact. I am present but I am not. My mind has moved on. I smile nod. Acknowledge. I find it hard to concentrate on the buildings moving outside. The world is filtered by the tinted glass. Moving. Buildings glint against the sunlight. I know we are moving North. The direction of LAX. I think of politics. I am a politician. I am a business man. A killer. A criminal. I am actually aware that all of this that has gone before me is my fault. My responsibility. I feel no guilt. No shame. It is one thing to study war. It is another thing to live a warriors life. The men in this vehicle know this. They have honor. They have code. I am or seem to be no mystery to them. I see the sign white on green that states: LAX. I stare out the window. I can smell oil inside the car. Gun oil. These men are armed. We are all staring out of windows seeing the world filtered through our own perspectives.
And who am I? Who am I in this final exit. To answer that is impossible: there ... is ... no ... key.
END
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Barry Crowther has made his home in San Clemente Southern California. Originally from Manchester England, he continues to work and write in the sun with his three daughters, wife and chocolate lab Coney.
Barry is an online marketing consultant in Southern California.
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