It was about three a.m. when I took the last sip of my Coke, said goodbye to Sol, and left the bar. Gravel crunched beneath my feet as I walked to my Corvette, parked in Rocco’s gritty lot behind the restaurant. Nobody liked the dirty parking lot, and tonight was no exception. It was dark, dusty, and practically deserted. I spotted only two cars, mine and a sedan parked at the edge of the lot by the rear fence. Sol’s limo awaited him in front at the curb, where most of the customers parked.
I slipped my key into the Corvette door lock, jumping a little when I heard the grinding sound of another motor starting up. My eyes swept the lot. An almost imperceptible movement of the dark sedan parked by the fence and the vapor billowing from the exhaust told me that I wasn’t alone in the lot. Someone else was heading home, but it was strange; I hadn’t seen anyone leave Rocco’s along with me.
After cranking the Vette to life and driving out of the lot onto Florence, I looked in the rearview mirror and noticed that the dark car had waited until I’d turned onto the street before it pulled out. The sedan was now following me.
It was too dark to make out what the people in the car looked like, but two of them sat in the front seat. I could see their heads backlit from the headlights behind. They had to be Detective Hammer’s men. It seemed like a waste of taxpayers’ money, cops following me around. What was Hammer thinking? Did he think I’d stop somewhere and check my gun just to make sure it was still snug where I supposedly hid it?
The hell with the cops, I wasn’t going to let them get under my skin and destroy my weekend. I turned on the radio and punched in KHJ. They had a new night guy I liked, Machine Gun Kelly. I chuckled, he was a straight shooter-groan-but he played a lot of Buddy Holly and Elvis stuff. I liked that, although I frowned when Machine Gun put on the next oldie, “Jail House Rock.”
As soon as I parked my Vette in the carport at the rear of the apartment building and climbed out, I knew it was trouble. The dark sedan had followed me to my spot and wedged in behind me.
Two goons jumped out. These guys weren’t cops.
The first guy out was big-King Kong in a suit. And his temperament suggested that someone had just stolen his banana.
This was going to be trouble.
“You O’Brien?”
Before I could answer, he came at me and tried to take my head off with a solid right. I ducked, and he got a knee in the groin for his trouble. He doubled over. I felt something hard slam across my back. I let out a yell and spun around. The second guy had a baseball bat, a Louisville Slugger, the gangster’s choice. Autographed by Al Capone, no doubt.
He wasn’t out to kill me. He could have done that with one blow to the head, but he wanted me to hurt-really hurt. He wanted me to remember this night.
He swung again, aiming for my midsection, and connected. I went down, gasping for air. I rolled, skittered to my feet, the adrenalin pumping, and charged the guy before he could wind up again. I smashed my fist into his nose and watched it shatter, blood gushing. He dropped the bat and covered his face with his hands. I stood and watched him for a second… a second too long.
The first guy, now recovered, pounded the back of my head with something hard. Lightning exploded in my brain, a whiteness that blotted out the night. I staggered, but didn’t go down. In slow motion, his fist came at me like a freight train, looming larger as it approached my face. Instantly, real time came back. The blow connected, knocking me off my feet.
I looked up to see the guy with the broken nose standing over me. He started to plant his boot into my solar plexus, hard. I tried to turn away, and as I twisted, I vaguely felt the other guy kicking my side. Through a foggy gaze, I saw one of them pick up the bat. Then it stopped. The world turned out the lights and closed up for the night.
Sunlight flooded my eyes, but all I saw was a yellow sheet of paper. I was lying on my back, still in the carport behind my apartment. And the yellow piece of paper was covering my face. I tried to move my arm. I couldn’t-the pain. I went out again, but came back. Saturday morning, but what time was it? It must be early; no one was around, messing with their cars. Even Quinn, who went to early mass every day, hadn’t left yet. Muscles and bones hurt, everything hurt, even my hair hurt. I felt like roadkill. With great effort, I reached up and grabbed the paper off my face. The sun almost blinded me.
I turned onto my side, tucked the paper in my pants pocket, and tried again to move. I was able to crawl. The door to my Vette was open, and it was right above me now. I pulled myself up and managed to climb into the bucket seat. I glanced down at my shirt. It was covered in blood. I rubbed my hands over my face and examined them. I wasn’t bleeding. The blood must have been from the guy I hit. I sat there for a moment, not knowing exactly what to do. The thought of negotiating the stairs to my apartment on the second floor was too much to bear. Fishing around in my pocket, I found the car keys. My hand shook, but I managed to start the Corvette. Pain ran up my spine like a jolt of electricity, a thousand-volt charge, when I turned and glanced over my shoulder as I backed out of the carport.
I’m not sure how I did it, but I survived the short drive to Downey Memorial, all the while trying to figure out why they jumped me. My wallet was still tucked in my back pocket, empty as it was, and nothing in my car was disturbed. No, it wasn’t a mugging. Those guys were pros, professional leg-breakers. And I was their target-one guy called me by my name. I wondered if it had to do with Robbie Farris. Maybe I was getting close to something hot. Maybe I just got burned.
I bumped the curb in front of the hospital’s main entrance trying to park, and slumped forward in the seat. I must have passed out again, but I woke with the sound of my car horn blaring. I untangled my arm from the steering wheel and the horn stopped.
I leaned back. The next thing I knew, some guy in white was tapping on the driver’s side window.
“Hey, buddy, the party’s over. Sober up and go home. This is a hospital district; you’re making a lot of noise.”
I slowly turned my head his way and started to roll down the window. He gasped when he saw my face. A shudder ran through me when I realized that his look of horror was because of my appearance. I must’ve looked like a freak.
“Oh, my God. Are you all right? Jesus.” He opened the door. “Wait here, I’ll get help.”
“No, it’s okay. I just need a doc to check me out. I think I can walk.” I started to climb out of the car. Suddenly, a wave of dizziness swept over me, my legs gave out, and I fell back into the seat. “Go get someone,” I said to the guy in white.
CHAPTER 26
The bright lights, the cold antiseptic air, and the noise-lots of noise-were not calming me down at all. I thought hospitals were supposed to be quiet. Guess they make exceptions in the emergency room. The doctor who leaned over me, raising my eyelid and peering into my pupil with his little light thing, had to be about ninety. I doubted if he actually went to medical school, probably learned medicine reading by the light of a fireplace. He kept asking questions, dabbing his mouth first with a small cloth, he held then he’d hesitate and say something like, “Aw… Mr. O’Brien, do you know what day of the week this is?”
At the same time, a middle-aged woman wearing white, clipboard in hand, stood next to me while I lay on the gurney. She asked questions as welclass="underline" “Can I have your name, please?”
I felt like saying, no, it’s mine, but I meekly answered, “O’Brien.”
At that point the doctor, said, “Aw… not your name, the day of the week.”