42

Butch carried his latte to the front patio of Starbucks, trying carefully not to spill a drop but still managing to get a dark smudge on his brown loafer. He settled into the hard iron chair at the glass table next to Conrad.

“See the game last night?” Conrad stared wistfully into the traffic whisking by on Wilshire Boulevard.

“Dodgers, 11-2. Saw it. I got confused a few times though.”

Conrad sipped his bitter coffee. He had been trying to cut back on sugar. “What confused you?”

“It was Jackie Robinson Day, so everyone on the field was wearing number 42.”

“Couldn’t tell the players apart.”

“Exactly.”

They sat in silence for several moments, ingesting their jolts of caffeine and meditating on the chariots of chromium and steel roaring up and down the boulevard, ferrying warriors to mundane jobs and day care and the grocery store, the mall and the chiropractors office, the gym and the golf course. Humans on the move like swarming ants.

“You know what would be freaky?” Butch lazily said. “To be like a major league ball player and forced this one day of the year to wear a number other than your own number, which also happened to be your lucky number.”

Butch had Conrad’s full attention now. “And he gives in and wears the number and then goes on a losing streak after that –”

“– a star player, cursed.”

“And only love can break the spell!” Conrad jumped out of his seat.

Butch beamed. “Brother, I think we got a screenplay here.”

The Seventh Sense

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“Hi. Ummmm.” He stammered. “I’m a front gate guard at Hollywood Center Studios on Las Palmas in Hollywood.”

“Yes. What’s your emergency, sir?”

“Well, there’s been a car load of gangbangers circling the block for the last twenty minutes, which is sort of weird at three o’clock in the morning. Every time they drive by they slow down and shoot hard looks at me and my partner.”

“What’s your emergency, sir?” she sighed into the headset.

“We’re just afraid they might do something.”

“Do something? Sir, call us back when they do something, circling around the block at three o’clock in the morning is not illegal.”

A tap of a button and she ended the call. On to the next. A tire store fire in Compton. A shooting in Inglewood. An out-of-control party in Hollywood. A transient stumbling in traffic on Santa Monica Boulevard.

“911. What’s your emergency?”

“Thanks a lot, lady!”

“What?” She gnawed on a bologna sandwich lathered with mayonnaise on two slices of Wonder Bread.

“It’s the gate guard guy again. Larry. You told me to call back if they did anything. Well, they did something. And I’m dead. You’re talkin’ to a pretty pissed-off dead guy right now, lady. Call us back if they do something? What kind of screwed up police protocol is that? I’ll tell you what, the kind that gets its citizens killed, lady. I gotta go now. There’s a ginormous white light with my name on it moving toward me pretty fa–”

Blonde, Shy

The ad struck Richard as a classic in minimalism, something one doesn’t often see in the Women Seeking Men category:

Blonde, Shy, 41

Box #4495

They exchanged e-mails and agreed to meet at the Blue Monkey Bar and Lounge on Tuesday at eight. Her name, she wrote, was Jennifer.

Jennifer. Richard liked the way the name rolled off his tongue. He practiced it several times on the drive to the Blue Monkey on Hollywood Boulevard. Jennnniffffer. Jen, Jen, Jenny with the light blonde hair.

When he arrived at the bar at the appointed time, Jennifer — recognizing him from the photo attachment he sent in his last e-mail to her — leaped off her stool, mai tai still in hand, and shrieked loud enough to bring the rafters down.

“Richard!” She affectionately threw an arm around his waist as if greeting a long-lost soulmate.

She was a redhead.

 

Kangaroo Dawn

On the Friday before his father died, Drake awoke to learn that the marauding marsupials were on the loose in L.A. once more. He picked up the details on KNX News Radio while preparing his breakfast of scrambled yenta and thick, generous slices of fried horse back.

The suspects were two red kangaroos, Marcopus rufus, both male. Suspect One was described as six-foot-seven, approximately two hundred pounds. His accomplice in robbery and murder was six feet tall and around one hundred and fifty pounds. At 10:00 AM they entered the Miracle Mile branch of Wells Fargo shortly after the bank doors opened for business. Suspect One brandished an unknown make of handgun. Suspect Two cradled a shotgun in his forepaws.

Drake sat down at the kitchen table and hurriedly ate his breakfast while listening to the rest of the news bulletin.

The furious red roos — described as “twitchy” and hyperactive — ordered the bank customers to lay down on the floor. When Jason Krebs failed to comply fast enough the shotgun-wielding suspect delivered a serious kick with his lethal hindleg, the sharpened toenails disembowling the 47-year-old realtor from Santa Monica. One of the horrified onlookers, Judith McDowell, 73, a retired RN, scrambled to her feet, screaming, and bolted for the doors. She was shotgunned in the back for her efforts and died at the scene.

Drake found this detail fascinating. Red kangaroos, he knew from his years on the roo beat, were not normally dexterous around shotguns, preferring small handguns instead.

He rinsed his breakfast dishes in the sink, snapped off the radio, and headed for the bedroom, quickly shedding his bathrobe and slipping into his street clothes. Drake grabbed his badge, service revolver, and roo knife and headed for the door. He wondered how many more years of this shit he could take.

Cat Politics

“– and then you came over here and harrassed my cat!”

“I did what? Harrassed your cat? Walter, how is it possible to harrass a cat?”