“I think I’ll do like you and have a Whopper,” he said, concentrating on the menu. “And a Coke, please.”
After she ordered at the counter and their burgers were ready, she brought a tray to the table where Malcolm waited. Eunice put Malcolm’s burger and drink in front of him, along with a paper napkin.
“There,” she said. “You’re too thin to be missing meals.”
Malcolm said, “If you could explain to me some of the ins and outs of the business, I’d really appreciate it. I want Mr. Graham to be happy with my work.”
“How old are you, Clark?” Eunice asked.
“Nineteen. But Mr. Graham said I could pass for twenty-one.”
“That’s astounding,” Eunice said, smiling tenderly. “I can’t remember the last time I talked to someone who wanted to look older.”
Malcolm did not like the way she was staring at him. He didn’t like the way the conversation was going. He suddenly experienced a wave of nausea and even fear, but he held it back, forcing himself to concentrate on the food.
“The burger is awesome,” he said. “Thanks a lot, Ethel.”
“You ever throw a rock at our car again and I’ll kill you and everyone you know,” Flotsam said to the Salvadoran kid who was sitting on the curb with three other Latino teenagers after 6-X-32 stopped and the surfer cops got out. They made all four boys kneel with their hands on their heads, and they kept flashlight beams on them while they patted them down.
“I didn’t throw no rock,” the kid said with a giggle.
Flotsam was pretty sure the rock had come from him, the one with the goofy grin. They were in a graffiti-tagged residential neighborhood in east Hollywood. The boy was thirteen years old, an aspiring member of MS-13, the world’s largest gang. But at this stage he was just a play gangster, just a wannabe.
Jetsam motioned for them to get to their feet and put their hands down, and he said, “Who threw it, then?”
“I didn’t see no rock throwed,” the kid said.
“Maybe that was a hummingbird sailing over our car,” Flotsam said.
“Maybe a bat,” the kid said, giggling again. “There’s lotsa bats flying around here.”
The other kids chortled at that, and Flotsam said, “You ever hit our car with a rock and I’ll kill you, your momma, and your dog.”
“Our dog is with my brother, Chuey,” the kid said, giggling again, as a tricked-out lowrider squealed around the corner from the boulevard onto the residential street. The kid turned to look in the direction of the car and said, “Yo, here comes Chuey now!”
Flotsam and Jetsam turned toward the green lowrider with gleaming spinner wheels, and when Chuey spotted the black-and-white, he floored it to the end of the street, where he made a screaming left turn.
The surfer cops jumped in their shop, ripped a rubber-burning U-ee, and went after the lowrider. Chuey had second thoughts and stopped two blocks away rather than try to escape. It was another dark residential street like the first one, with modest homes interspersed among deteriorating apartment buildings. Somebody was destroying eardrums in the house nearest to them, playing hard rock that neither cop recognized. Salsa music was competing with it in the apartment building next to that house, with a Marc Anthony CD cranked up to decibel overload.
Flotsam approached on the driver’s side and Jetsam on the passenger side of the car, both moving cautiously, lighting up the interior with their flashlight beams. Neither of them saw Chuey’s “passenger,” who was lying down on the backseat.
When Flotsam got parallel with the backseat, Chuey rolled down his window and said to the tall cop, “Be careful, man.”
Flotsam put his hand on his nine and said, “Careful of what?” and found out when a Rottweiler rose up and roared, lunging at the rear window that was open six inches for ventilation.
“Whoa!” Flotsam yelped and drew his Beretta reflexively.
Jetsam almost drew but relented when he saw that the dog could not get out. Then he said, “Bro, that is a major canine. Hugangus, I would call it.”
Flotsam’s hands were shaking when he holstered his pistol. “Step outta the car, dude,” he said to Chuey.
“I can’t,” Chuey said, eyes red and watery, clearly tanked, which explained his initial panic.
He was no more than twenty years old and was inked up gangster-style. Of course, Flotsam directed his flashlight beam on Chuey’s hands, and in this case he was looking for more than a weapon. He was looking for an MS-13 tattoo but he didn’t see one.
“Whaddaya mean you can’t?” Flotsam said.
“If I do, my dog’s gonna come over that seat before I can close the door, and he’ll go for you.”
“He does and I’ll shoot him,” Flotsam said.
Then Chuey said, “You can’t shoot him! That dog’s like my brother, man!”
“That dog is smarter than your brother,” Jetsam said. “We just met him back there.”
“You shoot my dog, I’ll sue your ass!” Chuey said.
“We’re gonna give you a sobriety test, dog or no dog,” Flotsam said.
“I’m warning you, man!” Chuey said.
“No, I’m warning you, dude,” Flotsam said. “And for the last time, get the fuck outta that car.”
Flotsam’s tone got the massive canine growling and his fangs bared.
By the time that growl came from deep within the animal’s chest to his throat and past his bone-crunching jaws, it was a lion’s roar.
“Partner!” Flotsam called. “Come around here and cover me!”
Jetsam ran around the car, drawing his Glock, while Flotsam grabbed the door handle.
“You chickenshit motherfucker!” Chuey said. “You shoot my dog and there’s gonna be payback! I’ll find out where you live!”
Seeing that Jetsam had the man and dog covered with his pistol, Flotsam drew his side-handle baton from the ring on his Sam Browne. The batons were made of aircraft aluminum and were supposedly unbreakable under normal conditions. Flotsam figured this might turn out to be a real test of that claim.
“You on it, dude?” he said to his partner.
“Good to go, bro,” Jetsam said, directing his flashlight beam and his gun on whatever came out that door in a hurry.
Flotsam jerked open the car door, and Chuey turned in his seat, trying but failing to stop the 140-pound animal. In fact, the surging Rottweiler shoved Chuey out onto the street flat on his face, a pint bottle of vodka he’d been concealing behind him spilling onto the asphalt. And then the dog paused for a few seconds on the front seat, snarling at the cops.
Flotsam dropped his flashlight and, instinctively holding the baton high in the air to deliver a hammer blow, said, “Here he comes!”
But suddenly the animal froze. The brute stopped growling. His huge mouth opened wide and his tongue lolled out. And he started barking, an excited bark, without menace.
Flotsam said, “What the fuck?” and stepped back.
The dog leaped onto the street while Jetsam aimed his pistol directly at the animal’s massive skull. But the dog sat, looking at the taller cop and barking happily.
“Bro!” Jetsam cried. “The baton!”
“He can have it!” Flotsam cried. And then to the animal he said, “Okay, doggy! Fetch! Fetch!” And he hurled the baton with all his strength and heard it clattering to the pavement forty yards down the darkened street.
The Rottweiler yapped with joy and raced after the baton as Flotsam picked up his flashlight, and Jetsam grabbed Chuey by the back of his collar. They quickly handcuffed the prisoner and dragged him to their shop, throwing him into the backseat. Then both cops leaped into the black-and-white and Flotsam made a faster U-turn than he had when Chuey had tried to get away from them.