Hinky

Hinky (18)

2009-07-08T14:21:00.000-07:00

Yates knew more about what he didn't want than about what he did want. For that reason, he opted for the bus stop on the shady side of the street not caring which bus would come along to collect him. At least he was out of the sun. No one had followed him out of the hospital so he assumed he would have several hours before I.A.D. would be alerted. The bus that finally arrived took him in the direction of West Los Angeles.

Yates realized he was getting curious stares from the other bus riders. Just you try taking a shotgun blast to the chest and face and see how good you look, he thought to tell them. Instead, he asked, "Anyone got some extra meds they can spare?" That ended any interest they may have had in Yates.

The thousand dollars had been a surprise. How the cash had come to be in his pants pocket was a mystery to Yates, but one he did not lose time stewing over. Five minutes after making the discovery, he was out the door never to return. Hopefully. The droning and the rhythmic bouncing of the bus lulled Yates into what he thought was a light sleep. Therefore, he was surprised to open his eyes to discover that the bus had come to a halt and the bus driver bending over him.

"Hey, mister, you're buddy's here to get you," the driver said shaking Yates shoulder causing him incredible pain.

"What buddy?" Yates asked while failing in his attempt to brush away the driver's grasp.

"This here one!" came the response from behind the driver. A face peered around offering an exuberant smile.

It was Clive.

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Hinky (17)

2009-05-29T16:19:00.000-07:00

"Are you wearing a wire?" Yates knew they'd send in somebody to see if he would talk. He hadn't thought it would be his ex-wife.

"When did you get a sense of humor?," she replied. "The last thing a blackmailer wants is for the blackmailee to be sent up the river."

"At least you were always honest." Yates could actually talk now without inducing painful spasms.

"God, is that what you think?"

"What exactly are you doing here?" Yates was losing patience. He had a limited tolerance for her at the best of times.

"A payment's coming due and I want to know how you're going to handle it."

"Don't know that I can. Might be awhile before I get out of here."

"Swear to God, Yates, if I don't get what's coming to me the pain you're feeling now won't begin to compare to what I inflict on you."

"You been reading the Bible?" She used to be a devout church-goer before she turned to sex and money.

"As a matter of fact, I have. Got a problem with that?"

"Not me," he told her.

"I got to the hotel room before he did and there was nothing else to read."

"Whatever gets you hot," Yates muttered.

"I want my money. You'd better give it to me."

"I'm guessing we're all gonna get what's coming to us, so why not you?"

On that note, she left without saying goodbye.

More to follow...

Hinky (16)

2009-05-07T14:32:00.000-07:00

If cops are easy to spot, that special breed of individual who matriculates into I.A.D. is even easier to recognize. That was Yates' opinion and it was confirmed, yet again, when he opened his eyes to see two guys in cheap sport coats standing at the foot of his hospital bed.

"Sacco and Vanzetti, I presume?" His voice was little more than a hoarse whisper.

"You know who we are," said the one on the left with a buzz cut and an American flag lapel pin.

"Got a name?" Yates asked reaching for a water glass, which required a great deal of effort and caused him a considerable amount of pain. The I.A.D. cops made no effort to help.

"Didn't Horvath brief you?" asked the other one. He was older but seemed to defer to the younger military specimen.

"Haven't spoken to him," Yates answered while making sucking noises through his straw.

"You mean since he went to your apartment?"

"It all seems so long ago," Yates said distractedly as he tried to replace the water glass on the roll-away tray table. He couldn't quite manage it and the glass fell to the floor smashing into pieces. The two cops took no notice.

"I'm Michaels" said buzz cut. "He's Marlowe."

"My condolences to the both of you."

"They said you got a mouth," said Michaels. Marlowe nodded in confirmation.

"Who's they?" Yates wanted to know.

"We're not here to answer your questions," Michaels said with a smirk.

"And I'm not here to answer yours." Yates felt as though he might lose consciousness but tried to focus.

"Buddy, you don't have a choice," Marlowe chimed in. "Either you got answers or you got more trouble than you know."

"Oh, he knows. He's known for a long time, haven't you, Sergeant Yates?"
..
"If you think Horvath is something, you don't really need me. Right, fellas?" Yates could feel himself slipping away into unconsciousness or death or whatever comes next. He fought to hold on.
..
He saw the two cops exchange glances, obviously caught off guard. Michaels started to say something but all Yates could hear was Ray Charles singing "Georgia on my Mind".

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Hinky (15)

2009-03-16T16:31:00.000-07:00

Yates kept pondering the question as though everything depended upon his conclusion. He continued to turn the possibilities over in his mind, reluctant to make a decision that might adversely affect his existence. It really came down to two choices and, usually, by the time all other possibilities had been eliminated it was no great task to pick heads or tails. In the Marines, he had been accustomed to making split-second decisions that resulted in loss of life for somebody--hopefully for the enemy and not his comrades. That had never been a problem. This time was different. He simply could not ascertain whether Ray Charles was singing about a woman or the state. It was driving Yates crazy and with each passing moment, he felt the pressure to answer the question mounting. He dreaded the untold consequences of a wrong answer. Could he really have been singing about a woman when a state by the same name was surely of greater import?

As if in response to this torment, Yates' abdomen began to spasm sending shock waves of pain throughout his upper body and rendering him unconscious.

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Hinky (14)

2008-02-04T11:23:00.001-08:00

The easiest time to hide a crime is when it is committed. All the elements are present and capable of being disposed of. A decade or more later, it is impossible to know what traces have survived and who, in fact, may be interested in them. Yates had lived with the belief that he was officially free and clear of his past even though it was accurately recorded in the memories of three—now two—participants and vaguely noted amongst a hierarchy that preferred not to know further details if it could be avoided.

That he had been relegated to the rank of sergeant in perpetuity had been sufficient punishment in the eyes of the Department. An innocent would have demanded a formal inquest to clear away the innuendo and open the path to higher rank; something Yates, for good reason, had not done. Thus, he had accepted his status of pariah and the matter had been put to rest. Recent events, however, evidenced that it had not only come back to life, but someone seemed to have a vital interest in catalyzing it into some form of retribution.

What bothered Yates was not knowing who could possibly have taken an interest. Jessie Joe Patterson had been eliminated from the equation, both literally and figuratively, and Horvath could have no sane reason for drawing attention to the matter. Clive was a wild card and a phantom of sorts, but was he the interested party or a representative? What was motivating the action; blackmail, revenge?

As he sat in his car in the garage of his apartment building, the idea that what you don’t know can’t hurt you passed through his mind. Yates knew this to be erroneous. He then gave thought to the A.A. prayer, “God grant us the serenity to accept the things we cannot change…” that a Department psychiatrist had tried to impress upon him under the mistaken assumption that Yates’ antipathy for just about everything stemmed from an addiction to the bottle. This, owing to its acceptance by what seemed to be a majority of people on the planet, gave him a small amount of comfort as though it might provide some sort of immunity.

Having entered into this uncharacteristic, philosophical frame of mind, Yates looked up to see a man aiming a shotgun at him. He registered the blast emanating from the barrel before embracing a profound darkness full of quiet.

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(c)2006 Stephen Mitchell

Hinky (13)

2007-08-15T17:28:00.001-07:00

Yates spent the next few days as though he had left town to go into seclusion leaving only his body behind. He was nice to people he met and chose to avoid rather than confront even the most flagrant violators of the Penal Code that crossed his path. His utterances were the equivalent of those auto-replies one gets from the email accounts of absent executives; polite and undiscerning. Yates was a man whose world, already tilting, had turned upside down.

Jessie Joe Patterson had been dead and buried—figuratively—for many years in the Witness Security Program, which had the effect of protecting not only the savage Mr. Patterson, but Horvath and Yates as well. For him to turn up deceased shortly after Yates ran a make on a vehicle registered to his alias was proof that God had an evil sense of humor. He knew what lie ahead; interminable interviews with I.A., full-time surveillance of his comings and goings, wire taps on his home and cell phones and, more likely than not, GPS monitoring of his personal car and police vehicle. The trap had sprung and Yates found he was inside it unable to move. He was helpless to avoid whatever was going to happen. He was clueless as to what that might be.

Hinky (12)

2007-06-11T19:11:00.000-07:00

There came three heavy knocks at Yates’ door; the same three loud reports that had issued from Yates’ Beretta in Connie’s hands. Yates rolled out of bed and pounded three times on his side of the door in response.

“L.A.P.D.! Open up!,” was the return volley from the other side.

“L.A.P.D., go away!” He knew it was Horvath and saw no need to make it easy for him.

“Are you out of your mind?” Horvath yelled at him.

Yates opened the door and went to make coffee. Horvath came in closing the door behind him.

“What do you want?” Yates asked with an obvious lack of curiosity about the answer.

“What aren’t you telling me about Raymond Sloan?” Horvath sat on the Goodwill sofa and gave Yates a look indicating he expected an answer.

“Here’s a better question,” Yates replied without looking up from his coffee maker. “What do you know about Raymond Sloan that you’re not telling me?”

Horvath wasn’t prepared for this and he lost his momentum.

“Swear to God, Yates, I’m here doing you a favor.”

“Then do me the favor and get out,” Yates said pouring a cup of coffee for himself and ignoring that Horvath might want some.

“There’s something about the Sloan case that’s out of bounds. I want to know if you’re in the know.”

Yates sat down in his recliner and said, “I haven’t been in the know since I left the Marines.” He raised his cup to Horvath and said, “Semper fi.”

Horvath heaved a sigh and leaned back on the sofa in resignation. Yates slurped his coffee in a deliberate attempt to irritate him. He didn’t want Horvath making a morning of it.

“Sloan wasn’t his real name,” Horvath barked after he could take no more of Yates’ slurping.

“Imagine that,” replied laconically.

“You wanna guess what his real name was?”

“Not really and if you don’t tell me soon you’ll be talking to an empty room.” Yates swallowed the last of his coffee and walked to the sink to rinse his cup.

“How about Jessie Joe Patterson?”

Yates felt the same reaction as he had in his dream when Connie shot him in the chest except that he didn’t black out. He stared at Horvath long enough to decide he was telling the truth.

“Who else knows?”

Horvath laughed derisively, “You fuckin’ idiot! Everyone knows!”

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Hinky (11)

2007-06-08T13:55:00.000-07:00

Yates motored his twenty-five foot Venture out of the marina before raising the mainsail and jib and heading south towards Baja. There was a good breeze and he liked feeling the wind in the sail. Connie was storing provisions below. Her presence came as a surprise to Yates as they hadn’t talked much since Yates violated her husband’s parole and she was forced to go back to work at the Jet Strip near LAX. She handed him up an open bottle of Corona and went back to putting away the groceries.

There were only a few other sailboats on the ocean given that it was a week day and no motorboats creating chop. The Venture sliced through the water at speed made good and Yates relaxed. Passing the moored tankers off El Segundo, Yates experienced euphoria uncommon to him. His usual frame of mind was that of mentally bracing for an impact. Through the hatch, he saw that Connie had removed her clothes but hadn’t bothered to put on a bathing suit. She was humming a compilation of Sarah McLachlan songs, not that Yates could have identified them.

The heat from the morning sun relaxed him and he felt his tensions melting away. He took off his shirt and threw it aside. He took off the rest of his clothes and enjoyed the sun’s warmth on his body. Connie blew him a kiss. He wondered why he didn’t spend more time on the boat; it seemed to change him and it obviously had an effect on Connie as well. It was good to get away even if he couldn’t remember what he was getting away from. Connie got his attention by rubbing sunscreen all over her body in preparation for joining him at the helm. Yes! he thought to himself.

It was then that something gave Yates an involuntary start. His gun. It wasn’t on him when he’d removed clothes. Yates always carried his gun or knew its whereabouts whenever it wasn’t on his person. Had he left it under the seat in his car? Firearms, even for vacationing L.A.P.D. personnel, were prohibited in Mexico, but that hadn’t stopped him from bringing his nine millimeter with him in the past.

Yates looked up to see Connie standing in the hatch opening. Her naked body glistened in the sun; so did his Beretta which she aimed at his chest. She fired three rounds into him in rapid succession and the last thing Yates thought before blacking out was he’d sold the Venture years ago to a retired insurance salesman from San Luis Obispo.

Then he woke up.

More to follow...

(c) 2006 Stephen Mitchell

Hinky (10)

2006-09-20T17:10:00.000-07:00

Yates’ dinner with Clive ended before it was over, which is to say that Clive excused himself to go to the men’s room and walked out leaving the bill for his new best friend that he never had. It was becoming his signature move. Yates was frustrated by the proliferation of unanswered questions concerning Clive’s agenda and it was beginning to feel like one big tease as orchestrated by a woman. Not that women ever teased Yates; he wasn’t the sort of man that inspired such fun. They relented, bargained or, in the case of his ex-wife, blackmailed but never teased.

Looking at the bedside clock, Yates saw that it was just after four in the morning and he still hadn’t fallen asleep. He was wrestling with too many demons to identify them each by name, but they all came to wear the face of Clive as they paraded in front of his consciousness taunting him with unsolvable problems.

What troubled Yates more than anything else was realizing the anger that usually sustained him was slipping away in favor of an indefinable dread. He felt like a suspect already in a trap ready to be sprung. It was a frame of mind completely alien to him.

Recognizing that he wasn’t about to be sleeping anytime soon, Yates went to the fridge and opened a beer. He gave some thought to what his options outside law enforcement might be. After a few moments’ reflection, he saw that he didn’t have any. He was not what would be termed ‘customer friendly’ and the few private security gigs he’d moonlighted convinced him that he didn’t give a damn about protecting private property at what amounted to minimum wage. PI work was equally distasteful in that there were too many lines that couldn’t be crossed, which could be ignored as a sworn officer and, especially, as a Sergeant.

Yates concluded that he needed the protective coloring that being a policeman provided. In spite of himself, he laughed recalling his wife’s comment about getting famous or smart. Yates thought that her eight-to-five odds against either occurring were probably generous. He wondered what the odds might be of his getting lucky. Anyone could get lucky.

More to follow...

(c) 2006 Stephen Mitchell

Hinky (9)

2006-08-31T16:13:00.000-07:00

“You fell out of the sky and I ain’t gonna let this ‘piphany go by without giving it an honest, working man’s attempt to allow the synergy to be.” It was Clive at his grandiloquent best. “This time, the mountain come to Mohammed and I am grateful, as you will come to see.”

They were eating steaks again but this time not at the Pantry. Clive chose the restaurant, which turned out to be the Pacific Dining Car on West Sixth.

“What exactly do you want?” Yates asked in a truculent manner calculated to convey that he was seduced by neither the single malt Scotch nor the filet mignon tender enough to render a knife unnecessary.

“That’s exactly the question you ain’t supposed to ask! First ‘cause I don’t want nuthin’. Never did, never will. Second ‘cause we ain’t never met. You got to get your legs around that.”

Yates could feel the ‘Clive effect’ welling up in him.

“You jus’ gonna live your life like I don’t exist. When you see me in a line-up or hear them speak my name, you jus’ say to yourself and anyone who’ll listen, ‘Non lo conosco.”

“What?”

“It’s how the Libyans used introduce their relatives to the occupying forces,” Clive explained while laughing at his inside joke. “Be the smart guy you are. Anticipate but don’t formulate. Think of me as the best friend you don’t have. When the time comes, you’ll know what to do jus’ as long as we never met, et cetera, et cetera.”

“Am I supposed to be some kind of an alibi for you?” Yates demanded more out of a need to impose his authority than because he wanted to know.

“Man, I got a woman whose always tellin’ me not to spoil a good thing by talkin’ too much,” Clive explained, “and hangin’ with you, I’m beginnin’ to see what she’s sayin'.”

More to follow...

(c) 2006 Stephen Mitchell

Hinky (8)

2006-08-18T20:50:00.000-07:00

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

Hinky (7)

2006-08-14T18:23:00.000-07:00

Roscoe’s Chicken & Waffles had been a fixture on Gower in Hollywood for as long as Yates could remember, though the restaurant was a relative newcomer to Los Angeles compared to Philippe’s or Musso & Frank. Its odd juxtaposition of entrees was just the sort of offering that would attract the likes of Clive. When Yates entered the restaurant, the reaction of its mostly black clientele seemed to echo the sentiment of his ex-wife with regard to his uniform.

Yates saw Clive sitting in the corner with his back to the room. He waved off the hostess and made his way to the table.

“You want to step outside?” It was less a question than a command.

The man looked up with an indifference that quickly shifted to panic when he saw Yates’ uniform. Yates was pleased to see the panic but disappointed to see that it wasn’t Clive he was addressing.

“Perhaps, Sergeant, I might have a word with you first.” A black man in an elegant double-breasted suit seated nearby was addressing Yates. “You can speak with the gentleman after we’ve finished, if you like.”

As Yates took a seat at the second man’s table, the first made for the exit without looking back.

“Who the Hell are you?” Yates asked him.

“As far as I can tell, I’m the best thing that ever happened to you. You’d have to argue long and well to convince me otherwise.”

“That has a familiar ring to it.”

“Be that as it may, I am here to inform you of a few things that may be entirely unfamiliar.”

“Such as?”

“You have certain rights, which fair dealing requires you are informed of.”

“That’s usually my job.”

“As your attorney...”

“What?” Yates interrupted him.

“Oh yes, we skipped that part,” the man explained. “I am now your attorney representing you and your interests in all matters current or hypothetical in nature. As a consequence, all of our conversations and correspondence are privileged and I shall be pleased to keep you safe and harmless to the fullest extent of my capabilities.”

“Which are considerable, no doubt.”

“If I may say so,” the attorney confirmed without any hint of modesty. “My first counsel is to advise you to rid yourself of any and all unregistered firearms that may or may not be currently in your possession. I would intend this to include such 9mm handguns that may have recently come under your direction and control.”

The attorney allowed himself a polite smile to acknowledge Yates’ surprise before continuing.

“While I am ready and able to defend you against any and all charges, including homicide, I don’t think it would be in your best interest to murder the benefactor of the trust that engaged my services on your behalf.”

“Who the fuck is Clive and what’s this all about?” Yates was losing patience.

“I have been instructed,” the attorney said ignoring Yates’ question, “to create a portfolio of investments on behalf of a trust that has named you as beneficiary. Though I cannot take instructions from you, I am always interested in whatever opinions you may have as to the activities of the trust.”

“What is it I’m supposed to do?” Though it didn’t occur to Yates, his question signaled the end of the conversation to the attorney.

“As to that, I have no idea.” The attorney stood up to leave.

“You spoke of my rights earlier,” Yates said struggling to get a grasp of the situation.

“Yes.”

“What are they, exactly?”

“Well,” the attorney responded thoughtfully, “you have the right to remain silent.”

More to follow...

(c) 2006 Stephen Mitchell

Hinky (6)

2006-08-11T17:14:00.000-07:00

“Do you always have to show up here in that uniform?” was her greeting, which recalled Clive’s first words to him. “It sends the wrong message to the neighbors.”

“I don’t have to show up here at all,” he told his ex-wife. “You insist on cash and I’m not going to send it through the mail. So either you come to me, I come to you or you can do without.”

“I did without when we were together. That was enough for me.”

Yates noticed copies of Cosmopolitan on the coffee table. She’d gotten a subscription apparently.

“I’m going for a doctor this time,” she said noticing that he was noticing.

“Do you have any magazines that tell you what to do with a man after you’ve got him?”

“What would be the point?”

Yates handed her the envelope and turned to leave.

“Can I as you a question?” she used her softer I-used-to-love-you voice. “Why do you always put it in an envelope?”

“It’s customary and usual for blackmail payments.”

“At least I didn’t ask for alimony,” she answered in a demonstration of what she thought of as humor.

Yates looked at her, trying to see what it was that had attracted him to her back when. There was a hint of it, but not enough to spark any nostalgia.

“They’ll never promote you, you know. You’re damaged goods. Your only hope is to get famous or smart and I’ll lay eight-to-five against either.

As Yates went out the front door, she called after him, “Next time, keep your mouth shut in the sack. You can’t trust women and I can’t afford to be splitting this with anyone.”

More to follow...

(c) 2006 Stephen Mitchell

Hinky (5)

2006-08-07T18:40:00.000-07:00

The only thing Yates disliked more than people were other cops. He had a deep-seated suspicion of anyone who gravitated towards law enforcement. He didn’t trust them and did everything in his power to minimize contact with them; not an easy task for an L.A.P.D. Sergeant. Detective Horvath was no exception.

On the face of it, the two men should have been kindred spirits; not that either of them would ever have acknowledged such a concept. Both had been Marines. Both had distinguished themselves early in their careers attaining the rank of Sergeant in record time. They could have been drinking buddies on one of the regular runs to Baja informally organized by members of the Department. It was not to be, however.

A shooting incident involving Yates, Horvath, a member of the Crips and an innocent bystander with selective memory insured that Yates’ career trajectory would be stalled on the launching pad while that of Horvath would be accelerated. Both men knew the truth about the shooting, but neither had ever told it. They contented themselves to live with the consequences of what the witness had thought he’d seen. Any other course of action would have opened the door to further investigation and far greater consequences for both of them.

“Why’d you kill him?” was Horvath’s opener.

“He sold me a set of tires that were no damn good.”

“This isn’t a joke. One implausible coincidence and your career is over; two and you’ll be talking to the D.A. from the wrong side of a partition.” Horvath looked at Yates trying to read his thoughts. None were evident.

“I didn’t like the look of the car and he was obeying all the traffic laws; probable cause in anyone’s book, so I ran the plate. It came back clean and I let it go at that.”

“You didn’t pull him over?” Horvath probed.

“Any record of my running his DL?”

“No.”

“Well, there’s your answer.”

The two men stared at each other. Horvath didn’t believe the story and Yates was daring him to take it further. Beyond the concerns of the immediate situation both men were assessing how well their mutual secret was holding and calculating the probability that the other would someday crack and need to tell someone.

“We’ll let it sit there,” Horvath said relenting for the moment. “Unless push comes to shove.”

“It always does,” was Yates’ parting shot.

More to follow...

(c) 2006 Stephen Mitchell

Hinky (4)

2006-08-03T16:17:00.000-07:00

Yates spent a part of the next morning going through mug shots in search of Clive. As far as Yates was concerned, the man was already wearing a homicide jacket and drugs were probably a signature element of his lifestyle if not his commerce. Whoever made the statement that “they all look alike” never sat for a mug shot review in Robbery-Homicide. You could put the whole collection into a coffee table book titled “Faces from Hell” and make a fortune with it. After an hour of browsing, Yates gave up and left Parker Center without bothering to check in with Horvath.

Leaving downtown, Yates drove to a neighborhood in North Hollywood where a car thief with strong emotional ties to the Aryan Brotherhood resided with a lap dancer who specialized in stealing side arms from off-duty Sheriff’s Deputies at private functions. She usually sold the guns at premium prices since the bonus of implicating a member of law enforcement in whatever violent crime was to follow was extremely attractive to her clientele. Yates received his merchandise at wholesale as a result of past services rendered. It was unlikely that whoever had originally owned the weapon would have any connection to Clive. Furthermore, it was Yates’ belief that the Deputy in question would not have accurately reported the circumstances under which the service weapon had been lost, thereby leaving the lap dancer in the clear.

“What about the copyright laws?” the lap dancer asked him. Her name was Chrysstale, after the Champagne she would say, though the misspelling rather mooted the reference. She had just shown Yates her new tattoo, which inscribed “LAPD Rules!” across her lower abdomen.

“I’m not here to make an arrest, but I think the fact that he forgot the periods rules out infringement.”

“What periods?”

“Just give him the fucking gun and stop showing off!” Swanson was getting impatient and no doubt was anxious to score with the money Yates was exchanging for the gun.

Yates thought to ask the neo-Nazi if he’d ever come across someone of Clive’s description, but decided against it. Since Swanson was never more than a prepositional phrase away from a psychotic episode, the less he knew of Yates’ interests the better. Instead, he took a different approach.

“Know anything about a guy named Raymond Sloan?” he asked as casually as he could.

“Are you shittin’ me? Do I look like someone who’d know a Raymond Sloan?” Clearly, Swanson’s Aryan sensibilities had been offended.

“I just thought since he’d been murdered…”

Swanson took a moment to reflect on this, nodding his head slowly as though coming to terms with a new paradigm. “Cool. I’ll ask around.”

It was the best Yates could hope for.

“What periods?” Chrysstale demanded to know.

More to follow...

(c) 2006 Stephen Mitchell

Hinky (3)

2006-07-31T12:35:00.000-07:00

“Yeah, that’s him,” Yates heard himself say even though he’d never seen the man in his life. On the drive up Figueroa to Fourth, he’d rehearsed every possible permutation and, in the end, Yates blurted out the only response he’d determined he shouldn’t give. He was, however, able to restrain himself from adding that he’d just eaten dinner with the guy who most likely murdered the victim.

“Did you make a stop?” the Lieutenant asked him.

“No, I checked for warrants and went to dinner. The car was clean.” God help him if the dead man’s car was discovered at the very location Yates had called Code 7.

“What happened to him?”

“Looks like he crawled under a car and died. The lady over there got in her car and couldn’t back out because something was blocking her wheels. By the way, what color was his car?”

“Eight shades of grey.”

Yates wasn’t worried about the time of death. Elvis Presley could have been driving the Mercedes behind dirty windows at the time he ran the plate and no one would have seen him. What did worry him was that Clive might have left the car sitting at the Pantry just to tie him to the situation. Yates took the Harbor freeway south to Eighth and made his way to the pay lot, which served the restaurant. No Mercedes and no Clive.

Yates then drove around the immediate area to see if the car had been abandoned within walking distance, but it hadn’t been. He headed north on Figueroa once again, this time aimlessly cruising while thinking about the events of the past hour or so. That’s when he noticed the white card tucked under the windshield wiper of his patrol car.

Yates veered to the curb with such ferocity that anyone seeing the maneuver would have thought that he swerved to miss a pedestrian. He leapt out of the car and tore the card from the wiper blade. It read: Sloan Used Tires. He turned the card over to find the handwritten scrawl of a seven-year-old. It read: To collect your Happy Birthday present come to Roscoe’s at 5 tomorow.

Later, when Yates returned to his studio apartment in a complex on Barham that catered to recently divorced men, traveling executives working their way down the corporate ladder and an assortment of women whose last lodging had been the Sybil Brand Institute, he found a message on his answering machine. It was from Horvath in Robbery-Homicide.

“Got some questions for you about a cadaver/citizen. He didn’t just die. Someone gave him a thirty-eight caliber assist. Call me when you get this; see me before your next shift.”

Yates turned on the television, which was already tuned to the Country Music channel, and settled into his lounger with a beer.

“Fuck you and the snake you rode in on,” he said in reply to Horvath, Clive and just about everyone else he’d ever met.

More to follow...

(c) 2006 Stephen Mitchell

Hinky (2)

2006-07-27T15:21:00.000-07:00

Yates knew that anytime a cop was seen in public with a civilian, especially in a downtown restaurant late at night, the civilian would be perceived as a snitch by anyone interested enough to be paying attention. It would never occur to onlookers that the cop might be up to something. For that reason, Yates decided he would pay for the guy’s dinner, just to twist the knife.

“My name’s Clive,” the guy said after they were seated. He reached across the table to shake hands, but Yates ignored the gesture.

“The DMV computer says you’re Raymond Sloan.”

“I used to be Raymond Sloan, but then I saw Don Cheedle in this movie using a really bad English accent and I figured if he can do it, so can I.”

“You don’t talk with an English accent,” Yates observed.

“With a name like Clive, I don’t have to.”

The waiter took their order of New York steaks medium rare before Yates started in on Clive.

“Ever done time?”

“Do I look like the marrying kind? Jus’ cause you bought the whole program don’t mean everybody got to. Man, if you aren’t an ex-marine I’ll kiss a fat man’s ass!”

Yates studied the guy to assess his level of intoxication. His pupils were affected but he didn’t have a sweat going. The euphoria was probably manic rather than pharmaceutical in nature.

“Who do you like?” Clive asked him.

“Pardon me?”

“Marvin, Miles? Who?” When Yates didn’t register comprehension, Clive clarified with: “Music, baby. Who moves you?”

“Johnny Cash.”

“Fuck me! Jus’ cause you was born a redneck cracker don’t mean you have to stay that way. I read where people can change.”

“You read?”

“No. A woman I know heard it on Oprah and told me, not knowin’ I was gonna meet you.”

It suddenly occurred to Yates that he hadn’t given Clive a pat-down before entering the restaurant. Very careless, he thought to himself.

The steaks arrived and Clive poured half a bottle of the steak sauce onto his. He began eating with such relish that Yates might as well have been absent.

“From what I can tell, you’re a manic depressive, self-medicating section eight with a gift for gab and a twenty-year-old clunker that’s painted eight shades of grey. What have you got to say I should be listening to?”

“Don’t you like to eat?” Clive asked without looking up from his plate.

Yates could feel the anger in him swelling to the surface, but since this was the only dinner break he’d get that evening and a hot steak was preferable to a cold one, he set aside his question and began eating. It didn’t dawn on him that, since the very first moment of their encounter, he had been under the complete control and supervision of Clive, aka Raymond Sloan. Clive, on the other hand, had a full appreciation of the situation.

“Bet you’ve never been to Roscoe’s,” Clive said after he had finished his steak and signaled the waiter for coffee.

“Only to break up a disturbance,” Yates replied between mouthfuls. He didn’t like that Clive had finished his meal while he was still eating. It threw off his equilibrium.

“Can you take that to go? I got some bidness to talk about and I’m not gonna do it while you grindin’ your teeth on that steak.”

Yates could feel himself starting to disassociate from the environment. It was what the department psychiatrists had described as phase one of a manifestation Yates was to avoid at all costs.

“Bring this man some Styrofoam,” Clive told the waiter when the coffee arrived. Before Yates could stop him, the waiter took away his steak for packaging.

“Anyone can trip over a crack in the sidewalk.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, it don’t matter how many shades of grey your ride is. If you find it, he will come.”

“What?” Yates thought he recognized a line from a movie his ex-wife dragged him to see.

“I found it and you came. You gotta believe in these things or they won’t happen to you. Dig?”

The waiter returned with Yates’ steak in a bag and Clive gestured the bill in the cop’s direction.

“Give him twenty-five percent. He’s lookin’ downhearted tonight,” Clive instructed Yates. “I’ll be in the head.”

Yates did as he was told and determined that the psycho brotha had five seconds to launch into his pitch when he returned from the can or he’d find himself booked into the Glass House for the duration. That thought put a smile on his face.

Yates’ pleasure was short-lived, for three waiters came to his table offering a slice of apple pie with a lit match sticking out of it, in lieu of a candle, along with a dismal rendition of “Happy Birthday to You”. They hadn’t finished the second bar before Yates tore off in the direction of the men’s room, which he found to be unoccupied. He was about to give in to an urge to destroy something when his radio chirped out his call sign.

“The plate you ran about an hour ago belongs to a black male whose body was just found under a parked car at Fourth and Hill. Can you report to the scene?”

More to follow...

(c) 2006 Stephen Mitchell

Hinky (1)

2006-07-20T11:42:00.000-07:00

“What the fuck you doin’ in that uniform?”

It took Sergeant Yates of the Los Angeles Police Department a moment to register the fact that he hadn’t imagined the citizen’s question. Then, he repeated his own question.

“May I see your Drivers License and registration, please?”

“Nigga, please!” The man behind the wheel of the car shook his head in dismay. “I look at you and suddenly everything’s wrong with this country is plain to see.”

“Step out of the car.” Yates told him, using his command authority voice developed during two tours in the U.S. Marines. Yates took a half step to his right signaling an expectation of compliance.

“They got a man of your talents and experience drivin’ around in a monkey suit in the middle of the night with nothing better to do than hassle a black man.”

“The reason I stopped you was because of a broken taillight, but if you don’t step out of the vehicle right now, I’ll arrest you for felony resisting.”

The man behind the wheel of the car let out a squeal of delight. “Baby, that’s exactly what I told her last night! She like it when I talk to her like that! You married?”

“I’m not going to tell you again. Now, step out of the car or I’ll drag you out.”

The man behind the wheel of the car appeared to give some thought to what Yates said before replying, “Fuck that.”

“You are begging for some stick time, asshole.” Yates could feel destructive urges rising up within him that fed a need to purge several weeks of suppressed anger and unvented frustration. Passed over, yet again, for Lieutenant, it was certain he would never make Captain. There was a distinct possibility he could be demoted in rank if some in the Department had their way. Without realizing how it happened, Yates was suddenly aware that he was pointing his 9mm at the man’s head. With this awareness came a blinding flash of light.

“Smile! You on Candid Camera!” Yates saw that the man had taken his photograph using a flash. Without waiting for his eyes to readjust to the darkness, Yates thumbed the hammer back on the Beretta.

“I’ll bet you think of me as ‘the man behind the wheel of the car.” That stopped Yates from what he was about to do, which was to blow the guy’s brains out.

“How do you suggest I think of you?” It was a dumb thing to do, rising to his lame-assed bait. Immediately, Yates regretted it.

“You should think of me as ‘the man what’s gonna make you a millionaire and face all the possible repercussions should there be any, which there won’t.”

The man what’s gonna make Yates a millionaire and face all the possible repercussions should there be any, which there won’t reached under the seat, retrieved a bong and started to light up. Yates still hadn’t pulled the trigger. This surprised the veteran policeman, if not his new-found friend.

“What are you talking about?” Yates had heard more than his share of jailhouse shit, but never while pointing a 9mm at a guy who was more concerned about getting a good draw on his bong.

“Some niggas can see the future. I can tell it. An’ if you’ll open up your fuckin’ ears, I’ll tell you yours.”

“Do you know where The Pantry is?” Yates asked him.

“Man, I practically live there!”

“Lead the way. I’ll be right behind you.”

As Yates followed the twenty-year-old Mercedes over to Figueroa, he called in his Code 7 and thought to himself it would be just as easy to shoot the guy after dinner.

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