Hinky (8)

Yates found himself in a waiting mode and pretending not to know why. He told himself he was waiting to make Lieutenant, which he knew he never would. He told himself he was waiting for things to resolve with his ex-wife, which was a long-shot to beat all others. He even told himself he was waiting for the right woman to come along knowing full well that the concepts of ‘right’ and ‘woman’ weren’t traveling companions in his world.

Long an advocate of the pre-emptive strike, Yates was irritable at having to wait for anything. It therefore enraged him to have to admit that what he was really waiting for was a proposition from a delusional motor-mouth that, in all probability, would never materialize or amount to anything even of it did.

The whole scenario of Clive had jail time written all over it. Yates held on to the idea that he might still be implicated in some manner to the demise of Raymond Sloan. There was no reason for him to think this, but it was an idea he couldn’t dismiss. The man’s name kept returning to his thoughts like someone else’s favorite song. It irked him further that he should be so concerned over an act he hadn’t even committed when there were plenty of things in his past that could and should cause him to worry.

The wild card was Clive. He had an agenda, even if Yates couldn’t guess at what it was, and a complete lack of caution that was likely to bring him down along with everyone in his address book. It occurred to Yates that he should have shot Clive that night before going to dinner. It would have greatly simplified his life. To kill him now could complicate things, given the involvement of the attorney and God knows what kind of paperwork the two of them had generated.

Yates realized he’d been driving aimlessly through the streets of downtown L.A. without paying attention to the radio in his patrol car. It was the sound of the dispatcher repeating his call sign that brought him back to his senses.

“There’s a 415 at Sixth and Los Angeles. See the man.” Yates could hear the exasperation in her voice. It was Maggie and she was not his biggest fan to begin with so he didn’t ask her to explain why he had been personally summoned to the scene. Instead, Yates punched the accelerator and sped along Figueroa to Sixth going faster than a 415 required but needing to boil off some pent-up anger.

As he approached Sixth and Los Angeles Yates looked for signs of a public disturbance, but the area was dark. He was reaching for the microphone to confirm the location when he heard a sickening thud from the right front side of the patrol car. He’d hit a pedestrian. Nothing else could make that sound.

Yates slammed the patrol car to a halt and got out to see whom he’d run over. He walked to the lifeless body lying in the street. Homeless and drunk, the man hadn’t seen the police car anymore than Yates had seen him.

As Yates knelt for a closer look, the man sat up laughing and said, “Bet you thought you’d never see me again!”

It was, of course, Clive.

More to follow...

(c) 2006 Stephen Mitchell