“He’s late. Are you sure he’s coming?”
Jorge eyed his boss. Pierre wore a mask of nonchalance, almost ennui, as though the murder of a law enforcement officer was no big deal.
“You like my mask?” Pierre asked. “I got eet at Ted’s Deescount Mime Shop. Only $2.99.”
“I love it boss,” Jorge said. “Gives you that James Dean vibe.”
“Who eez thees James Dean?”
“He was a famous actor in the fifties. Gave up his career to become a sausage farmer.”
“Ooo. I like-a zee sausage.” Pierre ripped off the mask and threw it in the dumpster. “I do not theenk I need zat anymore. Nor do I need zees.” He pulled off his jacket and laid it down beside him. “Eet eez too hot.”
A host of sirens wailed in the distance. Jorge studied the orange glow to the east.
“The fire’s almost here. The newsman said it was predicted to hit Hollywood by midnight. Governor Brown declared a state of emergency and called up the National Guard even though he’s no longer governor. I don’t think the Guard will make it here on time, though. They’re too busy with his other declared state of emergency. Something about a virus that’s going to kill a hundred ten percent of the population. According to the models anyway.”
Pierre followed his gaze. “I have not heard of zees virus. But I would not dare question zee models. Perhaps, I should put zee mask back on.”
“According to the WHO, it won’t help.”
“I thought zey said eet deed.”
“That was yesterday.”
Pierre nodded. “Whatever Roger Daltrey says.” He raised his arms to stretch.
“I like your shirt boss,” Pierre said. “Where’d you get it?”
“You mean zees old thing? I bought eet off some guy on zee street corner.”
“What does it say? It’s kind of hard to read in the dark.”
“Eet says, ‘Burning, Looting: Marxism. Eet’s not stealing. Eet’s redeestribution of wealth.’”
“Is it supposed to be sarcasm? Because I don’t get the humor.”
“You have to have an elite sense of humor to get eet.” Pierre yawned a toothy yawn. Sixty-two percent of active readers did too. “I am bored.”
“In a dullness and languor of spirits way?”
“More of a ‘I’m tired of seeting on zees milk carton’ sort of way.”
“We could play a game,” Jorge said.
“You have sometheeng een mind?”
“How about I Spy. We haven’t played that for a while.”
“Zat eez a wonderful idea. I’ll go first.”
“No problem, boss. Let me know when you’re ready.”
A moment later. “I have eet. I spy … weeth my leettle eye … something … round.”
“Is it a person?”
“No.”
“Is it Rob Reiner?”
“I said eet eez not a person.”
“Sorry, boss. I guess I had him on my mind. Probably because I was watching an interview he gave last night. Fascinating guy. Have you ever known someone with an intellect like his?”
“Once. A while back. Last I heard of heem, he was leeving een Guyana. Some place called Jonestown. But that’s not eemportant.”
“Of course, not. Now, where were we? Right. Something round. Is it the sun?”
“Eet eez much smaller than zee sun.”
“I see. Hmm. Is it your head?”
“How can I see my own head when my eyes are eenside of eet?”
“You got a point there, boss.” He paused and scrunched his lips. “Man, this is a stumper.”
“You geeve up?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Ha ha. I am too good.” Pierre continued laughing for a while.
“Well …,” Jorge said. “Are you going to tell me?”
“예. I mean oui oui. You see zee round stain on zee ground?”
“You mean that red one over there?
“Zat’s zee one. Eet marks zee spot where I stood over my predecessor and put five bullets een heez brain. Heez blood spilled out een a perfect circle.”
“Nice one, boss.”
“I conseeder eet my masterpiece.”
Jorge turned toward his mentor. Instead of seeing the pride he expected, Jorge saw something different. “What’s the matter, boss? You look worried.”
“I suppose I am a leetle preoccupied.” Pierre dabbed at the sweat which had begun to accumulate on his forehead.
“About what?”
Pierre wrung out the sweaty handkerchief and put it back in his pocket. “I was just theenking about zee fire. Eet would be a shame eef Hollywood burned to zee ground. Eef zat happens, who will the world look to for moral guidance?”
“Satan?”
“Ha ha ha. Satan is a feegment of your eemagination. Like gravity or Rhode Island.”
“Can’t argue with that logic.”
“But seriously. We’re zees close to restoring a world of kindness and decency not seen seence Sodom and Gomorrah. Zee fire would ruin all our good intentions.”
Pierre stopped abruptly and grabbed Jorge’s arm. “Shh,” he whistled.
“What is it, boss?”
“I hear something.”
“Where?”
“Look.” Pierre pointed to his left. “Eet eez heem.”
Sheriff Jeremiah stopped at the entrance to the alley. A single light, fifty feet or so away, cast a sickly, yellow glow and provided the only illumination. He studied the alley’s layout. The narrow lane opened up as it passed the light. The road hooked off to the left, forming another lane, which disappeared around the corner. At least, he assumed it did. There was no way to tell for sure from where he stood. The bend in the road provided ample space, thirty feet wide by his best calculations, enough space to make the turn with the speedboat of his dreams.
Right at the place where the perpendicular alley fled into darkness, a large dumpster sat like a metallic ogre. Between him and the dumpster, no less than six doors, rusted, unopened since the golden age of Hollywood, lined the sides of the three-story buildings. If someone were to set a trap, it would likely come out of one of those doors. He comforted himself with the knowledge that the rusty hinges would squeak as they opened and alert him to the presence of the ambush. His hand went to his side and caressed the grip of his pistol. It felt cool, small. Ridiculously small. He immediately regretted opting to bring his single shot derringer.
He pulled a note from his pocket and double-checked the address. This was the correct location. No doubt about it.
“Meet me in the alley behind Mohammar’s Homestyle Pizza, Taqueria, and Centerfuges,” the voice on the other end said. High-pitched, almost scared. A young lady, Sheriff Jeremiah had assumed, who had a problem pronouncing her i’s and her th’s. “Come alone and breeng five-hundred dollars. I have zee evidence about zee keellings you’ve been looking for.”
Sheriff Jeremiah had talked her down to one-hundred twenty-four dollars and a coupon for a free scoop at Barry’s Ice Cream Hut, all that he had in his pockets. If the sheriff hadn’t been so anxious to get his hands on the information, he might have realized she was a little too eager to agree to the terms of the negotiation. Now, the thought nagged at him like an imaginary wife.
“Are you going to order something or not?”
Sheriff Jeremiah turned around to see who had spoken to him in a mild, yet still discernible, middle eastern accent.
“Because if you’re not here to make a purchase, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. However, if you’re interested, may I suggest a nice pizza with pepperonis – made from anchovies, of course. We’re halal. Or a wonderful barbacoa with a zesty pico de gato. And if neither of those two tickle your fancy, I might be able to offer you the Mazeltov ZX-90 grenade launching system.
“If you’d excuse me,” Sheriff Jeremiah said, “I’m on official police business.”
“I see,” the man said. “Well, if you change your mind, here’s my card.” He headed into his shop and locked the door.
When the light inside disappeared, Sheriff Jeremiah stepped into the alley.
“Hello. Pierra? Are you here? It’s Sheriff Jeremiah.”
The sound of giggling came from behind the dumpster.
“Pierra?”
“Yes. Eet eez me,” came the response a couple octaves too low.
Pierre turned to Jorge. “Pull harder,” he ordered. Jorge gave a nice yank.
“Ahem. I mean eet eez me.”
Again to Jorge. “One more octave.”
Jorge pulled the back of Pierre’s underwear as hard as he could. Pierre’s tongue trilled out in a soprano lullaby.
“Yes, Monsieur Shereef Jeremiah. Eet eez me, Pierra. Deed you breeng the money?”
“It’s in my pocket.”
“And zee coupon?”
“I’ll have to give you a raincheck. I got a little hungry on the way over.”
“I cannot pretend zat I am not a leetle deesappointed. I am no longer sure zat I want to geeve you zee eenformation. I weell have to theenk about eet.”
Pierra paused for a while. Sheriff Jeremiah bit at his lower lip, hoping that his weakness for mint chocolate chip hadn’t caused him to make a fatal error. Just when he had given up, Pierra called out again.
“I weell take zee rain check. Please come closer with zee money.”
“Where are you?”
“By zee dumpster. You see me, no?”
Sheriff Jeremiah peered into the darkness. “I’m having a hard time seeing anything in this light.”
“No worries. Just follow zee sound of my voice. Zat eez good. Closer. You’re doing fine. A leetle to your left. Uh huh. Beautiful. A leetle more. You’re almost in my crosshairs. Just a beet more. You went too far. Go back to your right. Zere you go. Dead center. OK. And! Oh, shoot. Don’t move. I had my safety on. Let’s try eet again. Hey! You moved. Take two steps to your left. No. Your other left. OK. Now, stay zere. And ….”
Two sounds – one a loud bang and another like the whistle of an angry bee – hit Sheriff Jeremiah’s ears at about the same time. He scratched his head and wondered who had disobeyed the fireworks ban. Another crack and a tiny but powerful breeze parted his hair down the middle.
“You missed him twice,” Jorge said. “Give me the gun.”
“I weell do eet.”
“No give it to me.”
“I am zee leader. You weell not tell me what to do.”
“I’m just saying that if you want to kill him before he gets out of here, you might want to let me take the shot.”
“I am a much better shooter zan you weell ever be.”
“You don’t even know a pistol doesn’t have crosshairs. How can you be a better shooter than me?”
“Hey, Pierra,” Sheriff Jeremiah called out. “Is there a problem over there?”
“Oh, no,” Pierra said in her best falsetto. “Me and my girlfriend are just having a deesagreement over who gets to keel you.”
“I see,” Sheriff Jeremiah said. He paused. “So, are you saying you don’t have any information for me?”
Pew. Zip.
“I’ll take that as a no. In that case, I’ll be on my way.”
Pierre and Jorge stepped from behind the dumpster and into the yellow light.
“You weell not be going anywhere,” Pierre said. He pointed a long-barreled revolver at the sheriff. “Except to zee undertakers. Ha ha ha ha. What do you theenk about zat line, Jorge? You theenk I can sell eet to Cleent Eastwood?”
“Meh,” Jorge said.
Another minor argument ensued, giving Sheriff Jeremiah the time he needed to unholster his derringer. Pierre looked up to find himself staring down a bullet of his own.
“Put down the gun, Pierra, or whatever your name is,” Sheriff Jeremiah said, “or you’ll be the one getting undertaken.”
“Now, that’s a good line,” Jorge said.
“Really. You liked zat one. Eet deedn’t even make sense.”
“Ahem,” Sheriff Jeremiah phlegmed. “If you two could focus for a minute.”
“Right. Where were we?” Pierre said.
“We were at the part where you put down your gun and surrender to me,” Sheriff Jeremiah said.
The single shot pistol gazed menacingly at his opponent. Pierre gazed back, the smile on his face as broad as a pygmy’s backpack.
“OK, OK. You ween. I weell put my peestol down.” Pierre let out a short laugh. “Eet eez a beeg meesunderstanding. No need to get your tongue in a tither. See I am putting eet down now. Ha ha. Just a beeg meesunderstanding. We can talk eet out and ….”
Quick as a sneeze, Pierre raised the pistol towards the sheriff. Without the slightest hesitation, Sheriff Jeremiah squeezed the trigger. Everything became still for him as though the world had gone into slow motion. He saw the flash of fire shoot out of the barrel, the projectile make a lazy arc down the alley, Pierre’s eyes grow wide as certain death came his way. A shout tried to force its way out of Pierre’s throat, but before it could, the bullet struck dead in the center of Jorge’s forehead and bounced off.
Pierre stood frozen for just a moment until the realization of what happened broke through the shock. Then, the shout, which had become stuck somewhere near the epiglottis, transformed, as if by magic, into a laugh. Not of joy, though. Of derision. Scorn.
“Ha ha HA!” Pierre chortled. “Your gun bounced off my friend’s head. What a tiny little girly gun you have.”
“Technically, it was the bullet that bounced off,” Jorge said. “Although, I do concur with the girliness of the gun.”
“You know what I meant,” Pierre said. “I do not know why you have to be so semanteec all zee time.”
“I’m not being semantic,” Jorge said. “I’m simply trying to bring clarification to the situation.”
“There you go again,” Pierre said. “You’re proving my point. Always with zee corrections and zee beeg, fancy words and zee … hey, where deed he go?” Pierre looked down the alley. “Ah, dang eet, Jorge. You let heem get away.”
“I didn’t let him get away. You did.”
“Eet was clearly you.”
“It was both of you idiots.”
Pierre and Jorge turned to the sound of the voice. Sheriff Jeremiah walked towards them with his hands raised. Behind him walked another man in a similar uniform with blond hair and blond eyes to match.
“I knew I couldn’t count on you to get the job done,” Deputy Jones said. “Looks like I’m going to have to take care of it myself.”
“I would have had heem ….”
Pierre was dead before his body hit the ground. The smoking barrel shifted to the right. Jorge’s lips formed the n-o shape as the bullet blew out the back side of his head. Sheriff Jeremiah watched, unable to make sense of what was happening. Two men, who had just tried to kill him, lay lifeless in the street in front of him. His own deputy had emerged from the shadows at that perfect moment, but not to save him. At least, it didn’t appear that way, seeing as how the barrel of a .357 magnum rested on the side of his temple.
“Deputy Jones? I can’t believe it. I mean, I knew you were a part of the conspiracy to frame our suspect, but never in a million years would I have thought you capable of being a serial killer.”
Deputy Jones laughed. “You ignorant fool. I’m not a serial killer. I’m just the one who’s going to kill you.”
“But wh … why?” Sheriff Jeremiah managed to stammer out.
Before he had a chance to formulate the question, a loud crack tore through the night. A spray of blood flew out the back side. Legs went stiff almost immediately, allowing gravity to perform the only job it knew.
His body hit hard. So hard that the concrete split his head open and spilled his warm, red blood onto the sandy-colored uniform. His feet twitched twice. Then, stopped.
The sheriff watched a dark cladded figure approach. He looked at the body of his dead deputy, then, back at the man walking towards him. The air was still, quiet. Except for the fire which raged on the outskirts of the city. That made a horrible, roaring noise. But other than that … still … quiet. Well, there was the clomp, clomp the dark cladded figure’s shoes made as they strode down the alley. And the, “Ouch! Crap!” as the dark cladded figure twisted his ankle on a discarded conscience, which littered the streets of downtown L.A. But other than that … still … quiet.
A few minutes later, the dark cladded figure reached the sheriff, limping slightly and with a grimace on his face.
“Are you OK?” The man asked. A scoped .308 lay across his arms.
“Yeah. I think so.” The sheriff squinted and furrowed his brows. “What are you doing here? How did you know?” “There’s no time to explain,” Country said. “I need you to come with me. I’ll explain along the way.”