Underbelly Page 9

  “Esther, this,” he began haltingly and started over, “Esther, this is your father. I received the news about your mother and would like you to call me when you have a chance. This is the cell number of a friend of mine and she’ll get your message to me. I’d like to see you and the children. Thanks.”

  He nearly said “Sorry,” his regret making him queasy from his past failures as a father and husband. Quietly he cradled the handset, glad that no one was paying attention to him—or at least pretending not to. He was about to get back in the streets when Bonilla’s phone rang. He ignored the ringing assuming it was for his friend and he used the restroom.

  “Hey, Magrady,” a voice said after a knock on the door to the toilet. “You in there?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Janis called in for you. Said hit her back on her cell.”

  “Thanks.” He finished and returned the call.

  “Shane told me she’d left two messages for Sally but hadn’t heard back from her,” Bonilla said over the phone. “Only she just heard from her and she was all worked about what was your story, how did you know her brother and all your 411.”

  “Good to see I rattled her after my dance with her brother. What else did she say?”

  “Shane says Sally will only meet with you at the LRS offices. The implication being she wants lawyers around in case you try some shit.”

  Magrady snorted. “I’ll ask Shane to let her know it’s with her and Floyd or it’s no go.”

  “Cool by me.”

  After he related his counter-demand to Redding, Magrady left Urban Advocacy and walked about, heading into the heart of downtown. He sifted through his emotions about his ex-wife’s illness. Their romance was long ago tossed upon the junk heap of lost love but they had produced two children and even, if only for a time, a life together. The two-car garage and fondue party bit had gone to shit because of him so it wasn’t like he held animosity toward her for running away from the drunk, high, irresponsible asshole he’d become back then.

  Yeah, like he was a prince nowadays.

  A sadness descended on him like a shroud and he sagged against a wall, feeling as if he were being sucked into a quicksand of despair he had little energy to struggle against. He wanted a drink or a joint, anything to escape the feeling. Any excuse would do to get high and forgetful.

  He remained immobilized and uncertain for several minutes until a female voice said, “Mister, you want Gucci or Louis Vee? Got good Louis Vee, my brother.”

  Magrady looked over at a small woman of unidentifiable ethnicity with long garish nails, neon eyeliner, and piled-high black hair, her ample hips stuffed into too-tight satin peddle pushers. He blinked at her as if she or he had just arrived from an uncharted island as she swept a hand toward her knockoff designer-label luggage. He then realized he’d walked down to Broadway adrift in his self-pity and was leaning against the outside of the woman’s cut-rate travel bags and electronic appliance emporium. This was socked into one of the retail slots on the ground floor of what had been the Tower movie theater. A Los Tigres del Nor te song, “Mi Lamento,” swooned from a tinny speaker.

  “How about Hermès for your girl?” She cheerfully dangled several purses aloft to entice him.

  Magrady wiped tears from his face and offered her a shaky smile as he moved away. The Spanish lyrics of the melancholy ballad fading out until it was a ghost sound filtered among the din of the busy street with various shopkeepers standing in front of their stores or stalls hawking wares from supposed iPhones that looked more like ’80s-era calculators to the latest films barely released to the cineplexes on bootleg DVDs.

  Blaring from the Cinco-Cinco discount electronics shop was the daytime local news on portable HD TVs. Field reporters were broadcasting from the Emerald Shoals site, construction going on behind them as they announced the upcoming opening of the complex, even with some of the facility not yet completed. The mayor, the head of the Central Cities Community Redevelopment Agency and various celebs were slated to be on hand to usher in this shiny symbol of the new downtown. A downtown for urban pioneers and those who could appreciate the fresh sushi bar in the Disneyland of Ralph’s market dominating a corner of 9th Street. What, Magrady reflected dryly, low-wage workers couldn’t push up on some yellowtail and avocado? No lattes for the homeless?

  He walked to the Emerald Shoals and its office on site. “Is Chad Talbot available?” he asked the pleasant young woman behind the front counter.

  “Is this business?” she asked neutrally, taking in Magrady’s workmanlike appearance.

  “Personal. But I can leave a message.”

  “Hold on,” she said and she put two fingers to her ear like Uhuru in the original Star Trek. He hadn’t noticed initially due to her long hair, but there was a Bluetooth in her ear. With her free hand she tapped on her keypad. She reached Talbot, Angie Baine’s son.

  “There’s a gentleman here to see you, Chad.” She looked over at Magrady and he told her his name. “Okay. Good.” She severed the call. “He’ll be right out.”

  “Thanks.” Shortly Talbot came through a side door. It occurred to Magrady he hadn’t seen the younger man in almost as long as he’d seen his own son. Then he was a chunky, scheming doper with long straggly hair and yellow eyes like a wolf’s. The man before him was still stocky but now in a muscular way, military short hair and clear complexion. He wore black trousers and a grey blazer with the SubbaKhan logo on the breast pocket.

  “Good to see you, man.” He put out a hand and Magrady shook it. “Come on, let’s go in the lunch room.” He followed him through the door and along a hallway lined with framed photo prints of pro football players and singers. “I hear you and Mom are back together.”

  “Kinda, I guess.”

  Talbot grinned at him. “I know. She can be a handful.” They came to the lunch room which had various types of high tech vending machines ranging from one that dispensed fresh vegetables, instant noodles and even one that cooked and delivered a nine-inch pizza.

  “It’s on me,” Talbot said.

  “Thanks.” Magrady settled for a smoked turkey and pesto wrap and cranberry juice while Talbot had an egg salad sandwich with gouda and bottled water. There were construction workers and others in business attire also eating in the spacious area. The two sat at a table near an open exit doorway.

  Talbot had some of his sandwich. “You came to see me about Luke? ’Cause I paid my mom back that thirty bucks in case you came to collect. Still getting used to budgeting.”

  That was how he must have found out about the two of them seeing each other again.

  “No, that is, you’ve heard from him?”

  “About four or five months ago. He’s in New York. Involved in some kind of nightclub if I’m not mistaken.”

  “He called you?”

  Talbot laughed easily then regarded Magrady. “He did. But I told him I’d gotten myself together with the help of Shera, that’s my old lady. She’s a Buddhist and believes in balance and harmony and she’s certainly helped me in seeking mine.”

  “I can see that,” Magrady said sincerely. “What did Luke want?”

  “You’ll have to talk to him about that.” He smiled cryptically.

  He wasn’t going to push it. He probably wasn’t ready for the answer. Magrady changed direction. “Actually, Chad, I’d come to see if you’d heard anything about a mummified head belonging to a Native American shaman named Talmock.”

  He stopped mid-bite. “You’re serious?”

  “Yes. Apparently the head was dug up at this site.”

  Talbot shook his head. “I haven’t heard anybody talking about that. But I’ve only been here a little less than a year. Could have been discovered before my time when they broke ground. I’ll ask around. What’s this about?”

  He told him an encapsulated version of events, leaving out his speculation that Chambers and his sister planned to rob this head from whomever had it.

  Talbot made a low whistle. “Trip
py.”

  Magrady chuckled. “What can I say?” They ate in silence, then, “I think your mom’s real pleased with how you’ve turned out.”

  “I’m still on the journey. How’re things with you?”

  “Trying to keep my hand in.”

  Talbot chewed thoughtfully.

  “Luke say anything else?” Magrady asked.

  “He also asked about a couple of mutual friends, that sort of thing.” He made a gesture with his hand. “You know Luke.”

  Magrady nodded, wondering if he did. They finished their food and he said, “I appreciate you seeing me, Chad. And very glad to see you’re … on your journey.”

  The younger man was on his feet. “You want to take a quick tour?”

  “That’s okay. I’ll be dazzled by the gleam when it opens like the rest of the suckers.” He also stood and briefly clapped Talbot on the back. “Though I wouldn’t turn down a ticket or two to a Barons game now and then if you could swing it.”

  “Bet. I’ll walk you out.” They took a different route that let Magrady out on a side entrance. They shook hands again. “Good to see you too. And I hope your search is rewarding.”

  From there Magrady wound back to the edges of Skid Row. As he cut through an alley, more or less on his way to see Angie Baine—partly to tell her how impressed he was with her son now, and partly to take another look through Floyd Chambers’ stuff—a car turned into the other end of the alley and started to pick up speed as it came at him. It was that goddamn Scion with Elmore at the wheel.

  Magrady kicked some busted up wooden crates toward the car’s grill. This had zero effect in slowing the vehicle. He turned and ran to get the hell out of there and saw a pile of bulging plastic trash bags next to a doorway. He lurched forward and grabbed the bags as the Scion bore down on him. Moving again, he flung the bags over his shoulder. Risking a quick glance around, he saw the exploding bags splatter all manner of slimy human detritus including rotting food across the windshield. This impaired Elmore’s vision and turning on his wipers smeared the mess more. He slowed but he kept the car going straight and unswerving. Why shouldn’t he? He knew where his target was.

  V

  SCARED, HE LOST HIS BALANCE as fear tripped him up like one of those nubile babes in cutoffs stumbling through the woods in a Hills Have Eyes movie. Magrady scooted forward on all fours, crashing into a dumpster. He scampered to the far end of it and using his shoulder shoved the other end of the dumpster crookedly into the alleyway. The Scion’s bumper grazed the edge and Elmore, still not seeing clearly, instinctively reacted by twisting the wheel. The car veered into the wall opposite, tearing up the front fender.

  “Motherfuckah,” Elmore swore, quietly, righting the car and skidding to a stop.

  Magrady grimaced as he got on his feet, having wrenched his back pushing the dumpster. He looked around for something to hit the younger man with but would have to rely on his fists. Rather than wait for the attack, he rushed forward as the other man got clear of his car.

  “I told you to stay the fuck out of my business, old man.” Elmore socked Magrady in the gut and he doubled over. He moaned but would be goddamned if he was going to let this rooty-poot get the best of him that easy. He got his arms around the other’s waist and driving his legs, as Elmore pounded his back, tumbled them against the Scion. They then slid to the ground, grappling like kids in a schoolyard brawl.

  “Get the fuck off me, you decrepit goat,” Elmore said, trying to nail Magrady with a right to his jaw.

  The vet slipped the blow and got his hands around Elmore’s neck and choked.

  “That’s enough,” a voice declared over them, followed by the rapid crack of a baton along his shoulder blades and the base of his neck. Stunned and winded, Magrady let go and tried to get up. Elmore took this as an opportunity to exact damage and kneed Magrady in the groin.

  As tears welled in his eyes and his lax body lay between the wall and the Scion, Magrady heard Elmore hollering. He got an eye open and saw the Taser dart sticking in the younger man’s chest and he smiled wickedly. If he could, he would have peed on him to spark his ass up more.

  Magrady rolled over onto his back and the officer placed a foot on his chest, his nine aimed at his nose.

  “Don’t fuckin’ blink,” the cop ordered. He called in the incident on the radio clipped to his shirt then ordered, “Both of you on your faces, now.”

  They did so, with Magrady’s face lying on the back of Elmore’s calf. They were both secured with plastic restraints then told to sit against the wall, clear of the Scion.

  Magrady said, “I need some medical attention, officer.” His face and upper body were going numb and he ached from his spine to his toes.

  “Uh-huh,” he said in that noncommittal way cops answered perps. He’d dug out their wallets from their back pockets and was busying himself looking at their IDs. He wore a bike helmet and shades and had come up on them on his T3. These weren’t Segways, as they had three wheels for better balance and mobility. The things looked more like a kid’s futuristic electric scooter only there was a platform the officer stood upon, holding onto a vertical handle. Magrady had seen several of them being used by the cops patrolling the downtown area.

  “How you feelin’, champ?” Magrady said to bother Elmore. He was a few feet from him, his head down and breathing shallowly.

  “Shut up,” the cop, a youngish Asian man with planed shoulders, commanded.

  A lanky bicycle cop peddled up. “Need a hand?” he asked.

  “Sure, Dave, thanks,” the other one replied. The two separated the prisoners and interrogated them briefly. Magrady coughed up blood at one point.

  “Hope you drown, bitch,” Elmore Jinks snickered.

  The two officers were conferring when a cruiser came on the scene piloted by a sergeant. After parking, she talked to her officers then walked over to Magrady.

  “You said you want a doctor?” she asked. Her dark green eyes probed his face and form. She looked closely at his scalp. There was a crimson wetness in his hair.

  “I’m hurt,” he said, meeting her gaze. He shifted uncomfortably.

  There had been several recent incidents of hospitals dumping indigent patients on Skid Row, a couple of times caught on cell phone video—once with an LAPD patrol car going past. Added to that, a homeless woman had bled out three weeks ago after being stabbed and somehow getting into the secure lobby of a converted loft but being unable to summon anyone even though she buzzed several apartments. This story made the local news, and a guest op-ed in the L.A. Times by a homeless advocate posed the obvious question: would this woman have been ignored if she wore Uggs and had been accosted walking her Chihuahua?

  The sergeant had no desire to be in a position to explain to the brass why an AARPer had died from an untreated head injury or sepsis under her watch. Magrady was transported to the thirteenth floor of County USC, the jail ward where, the lore goes, Magrady recalled, in the ’50s junkie jazz saxman Stan Getz was cooling on the thirteenth floor while his wife gave birth right below him. Getz had been arrested for attempting to heist a pharmacy to get his morphine fix.

  The jail ward was still housed in the old structure off Mission Road. The facility was now partly empty due to the newer county hospital opening nearby. Though this was also the grounds of the coroner where the bodies were kept and if need be, dissected. For prisoners, there was the tradition of iron beds and leg shackles. A doctor had seen to him briefly. Into the room came a tall female nurse with serious calves, veined forearms and her blonde hair in a long braid, who sternly and competently tended to the aching Magrady.

  “Rest,” she commanded and made a once around the room to check on the others under her charge. Everyone was silent, there was no sound save the quiet scuff of her rubber soled orthopedics across the worn linoleum. That changed as soon as uber-Heidi stepped out through the secured door.

  “Fly me to the moon,” a tatted and buffed vato in the bed on one side of Magrady suddenly
crooned in a pretty fair imitation of Sinatra. He actually wasn’t too bad, especially as he helped drown out the sounds of the man in the bed on the other side of him.

  This one, bald but also in his twenties, had a leg and arm in casts and groaned and moaned. “Please help me,” he pleaded, “I can’t go back in there. He’s gonna have his way with me. Oh, please Great Umagoomah, I just can’t go.”

  In a bed set closer to the door, an older, heavier man with curly grey and white hair lay. He talked to himself, doing his multiplication tables. He kept going higher in value, not once making a mistake as far as Magrady could tell. The fifth bed’s occupant, this one under the barred window, lay still on his stomach, snoring.

  The nurse had poked Magrady with an IV drip of some sort of painkiller that mellowed him out like when he used to indulge and float away on Hendrix’s “Purple Haze” and Funkadelic’s “Maggot Brain.” He put an arm across his eyes and dozed, the looping cacophony of his fellow inmates an infirmary lullaby.

  “Dreaming of me?” a harsh voice said, disrupting his reverie.

  “Always, captain.” Magrady was loath to remove his arm but did so. The real world had to be confronted. Stover hovered near him, enjoying the sight of the former non-com laid up.

  “So what’s the deal with you and Elmore Jinks?” the cop asked, standing over the vet.

  Magrady considered lying but he figured he’d get more joy out of telling him the truth, as it demonstrated his defiance. He used the control to raise the top half of the bed. “I was looking for Floyd Chambers and those two jacked me in a bar in Inglewood.”

  “Thought you said you didn’t know Savoirfaire.”

  “Still didn’t, except for the time we had our tête-à-tête.”

  “You find Chambers?”

  “Yeah, but lost him again.” That was more or less accurate.

  Stover chuckled. “I guess this Peter Gunn thing ain’t your bag, Magrady.”

  “Seems that way.”

  “Why’d Jinks try to park his car on your chest?”

  “What he say?”

  Stover examined him. “He didn’t.”