“Shit,” Gunn said. “Super Blow ain’t gonna wait forever.” He tapped the steering wheel a few times with his index finger and then said, “Hang on to your balls.”
He swung the car over to the shoulder and one of the tires went up on the small cement curb leading up to the freeway. He sped past the other cars and forced his way in between two SUV’s. Horns were blaring and Gunn hollered as he weaved out from between the SUVs and lightly bumped a car forward by hitting them from behind.
“Pull over,” Stanton said.
“They’re fine.”
“Stephen, pull over. We need to cover that damage.”
“There was no damage, now pull your tampon out and relax.”
Gunn got on the far shoulder and zipped past the other cars. If anyone opened their door at any time, they would ram right through it.
They reached the scene of the accident and a uniform was standing there directing traffic. He grew furious when he saw their car barreling toward him until Gunn held up his badge out the window. The uniform immediately stopped other traffic and created an opening for them to slip through.
“Come on through, Detective,” the officer shouted.
Gunn thanked him as he whizzed past and onto the open left-hand lane. He sped up to eighty miles per hour and began shouting like a cowboy riding a bucking horse. Stanton watched him until he noticed. Gunn laughed.
“You know what, Jon? You gotta get more fun outta life, man.”
They took exit 239 to Palameno Street and found an old bar and grill named Ex-Wife’s Place. The exterior was brick and worn brown wood and there were neon beer signs up in the windows. After parking, Stanton checked his firearm’s safety and then stepped out of the car, following Gunn into the building.
The interior was as depressing as the exterior. It was dark and smelled like cigarettes and spilt beer. The only customers here were a few drunks sipping away their hours at the bar. Stanton felt for them; they couldn’t escape.
In the corner booth was a woman with chocolate skin and ruby red lips. Her hair was straight and fell over her lean shoulders. She was strikingly beautiful and didn’t fit in with this environment. Gunn sat across from her in the booth and Stanton stood by, pretending to keep watch. CI’s, particularly females, were jumpy and didn’t talk freely in front of strangers.
“How you doin’, sugar?” she said to Gunn.
“Good as can be. How ‘bout you, Nicky? You gettin’ by?”
“I’m always gettin’ by, sugar. Just a matter a how well.”
“You still with Pauly over there at Sherman Oaks?”
“Pssh, that broke-ass nigga couldn’t keep a job much less a woman such as The Nicole. I kicked his ass to the curb and sent him packin’.”
There was a pause and Stanton looked back and saw Gunn smiling.
“Is that what really happened?”
“Yes,” she said. “Why? You don’t believe me?”
“Well it’s just weird ‘cause I heard Pauly was doin’ twenty for armed robbery.”
She shrugged. “Well I don’t know about all that. All I know is I threw his ass out. I can’t keep track of what he doin’ when I ain’t there.”
“So no more Pauly. Who you got protectin’ you now?”
She reached into her purse and brought out the handle of a pistol. “I got Mr. Browning watching my back.”
“That’s good. But you need someone out here watchin’ your back, makin’ sure you’re not left alone with the sick fucks.”
“I got my girls; I ain’t need no man lookin’ out for me.” She rubbed his hand. “But you sweet for worryin’ ‘bout me.”
“So what’s the info you got for me on the body in the dumpster.”
“Cisneros? I was with this john the other night. We was in the Wal-Mart parkin’ lot up there on Treemont and he started talkin’, right. I was blowin’ him and he just started talkin’ and callin’ me bitch and sayin’ all sorts a crazy shit. Then he said, ‘I’m a shank you like I shanked Mike’s ass.’ And he went off after that ‘bout all the shit he was gonna do to me. Cuttin’ me up and hangin’ me, all sorts a ignorant shit.”
“Did he try to hurt you?”
“No, he was just talkin’. Once he bust a nut he just paid me and be on his way. But I remember that ‘cause I remember Cisneros was shanked.”
“Yeah,” Gunn said, “you could say that. He was stabbed over twenty times.”
“Yeah, so I took down this dude’s license for you.”
“Well, it could be nothin’, but I’ll take it. How much?”
“Six hundred.”
“Shit, I ain’t no rook out here tradin’ blow jobs to not cite you, Nicky.”
“Three hundred then. I gots to pay my rent.”
Gunn pulled out three hundred dollars from his wallet. “How’s your son?”
“He good. He’s in first grade now.”
“No shit? Time just flies, huh?”
“Believe that,” she said, taking the cash and stuffing it into her bra. She handed him a slip of paper with a license plate number on it.
Gunn rose. “If you need anything, you call me.”
“I will, sugar. Thanks.”
Gunn slapped Stanton’s shoulder. “Let’s go. We got a john to discuss his pillow talk with.”
CHAPTER 13
Stanton sat in the passenger seat of Gunn’s sedan while they called in to the precinct and ran the plate number. The day was boiling hot and he could feel sweat dripping down the back of his neck and soaking his collar. He turned on the air conditioning as Gunn finished his call.
“Tommy’ll call us right back,” Gunn said. “He’s away from his desk, whatever the fuck that means.”
“He’s probably having lunch.”
“You hungry?”
“No.”
Gunn waited a moment before saying, “So, the shrink. How was that?”
“What’d you mean?”
“Like what’d you guys talk about, is it helpin’, you know?”
“It’s fine. I’ve been to a lot of psychiatrists. My dad was one too. Whenever something happened at school, like I got into a fight or something, he thought it was a psychiatric emergency and I would have to go to his office and take Rorschach tests.”
“Man, I thought my old man was bad for givin’ me beatings when he had one too many.” His phone rang. “Hello?…Tommy, what’d you fall into the crapper?…yeah, oh yeah?…well we can talk about that later. You got a hit for me?” Gunn grabbed a pen and started writing on his hand. “Uh huh…uh huh…got it. Thanks.”
“Where is it?” Stanton asked.
“La Jolla. Maybe half an hour from here.”
Gunn started the car and pulled away. The freeway was relatively clear and Gunn had the radio turned to a rock station blaring Metallica. It was giving Stanton a headache and he knew most of his headaches turned to migraines.
“You mind if we turn this off?”
“No,” Gunn said. “So what kinda music you like?”
“Not this.”
They rode in silence the rest of the way and as they pulled off the La Jolla exit Gunn folded a piece of gum in half and stuck it in his mouth. They followed the off-ramp down and turned right, getting into a residential area that was packed with apartment complexes and single family homes. It was middle-class and the cars, though not luxurious, were freshly washed and waxed and the lawns were well maintained.
They came to a home with a large tree on the front lawn and a mini-van in the driveway. Silently, they sat looking into the house and could see a woman in a long-sleeve shirt and khaki pants vacuuming as two children ran around.
“You gotta be kiddin’ me,” Gunn said. “She must’a given me a fake plate.”
“I don’t think so,” Stanton said.
He thought of the victim in this case, Michael Cisneros. A young homosexual male with no known gang affiliations or criminal history. Cisneros had only his mother who was suffering from Alzheimers and was unemployed. He was the type of victim a monster might think could disappear without anyone noticing.
“You tellin’ me the dude that put twenty holes in Cisneros is married to fuckin’ June Cleaver?”