Boulevard (27 page)

“Come on.”

“Come on? Hey, once the body is taken in for an autopsy, it doesn't require a Watergate-sized cover-up. It just requires the coroner to say the kid died twenty-four hours later. Who's gonna care about a tiny, little, truth-stretch like that? Now everyone who watches the eleven o'clock news doesn't have to hear how the mayor's best buddy was whacked by an under-age gay hustler who then goes into the bathroom and kills himself.”

“Finished?” Christian said.

“Yeah, I'm finished.”

“Well I got news for you—the kid hustler, maybe he
was
there. I don't pick up the bodies, they just come in and I do them. As for the time and date of death—that's a guessing game.

“Bullshit it is.”

“It can be.”

“You're the hotshot,” Jimmy said, “You can goddamn well figure out the time. It's only a guess when someone wants it to be.”

“Kids, listen to me—Lodge was killed by a B-pos' southpaw. Paul's a righty. And his blood is O. Yeah, he might have been in the same room—not that I told you that—but take my word for it, Paul didn't do the kill.”

57

T
he wipers slapped back and forth. The windshield became obscured in a wave of rain, and with the passing of the wipers Olympic Boulevard, gray and covered in a river of water, appeared again.

“Moving bodies, that's pretty wild,” Erin said.

“How many more times can we strike out?” Jimmy said.

“Lodge's body stays, but Paul's moved?” She rested her head on her palm and looked out into the heavy rain.

“And what was Lodge doing with him?” Jimmy said. “He liked girls—at least that's what Tara said—that's what we thought.”

“Except for Cat's book. That was full of boys, and he was plenty interested.”

Erin lifted her head. “Jimmy—what if it wasn't the boys in the book he was interested in. But just having his
own
book?”

Another wave of water hit, and the city disappeared.

58
Casey

H
alf-jogging, half-walking, Casey and Dragon hurried down Santa Monica Boulevard. Water rushed down the sidewalk; drains were backed up, creating small lakes at every corner. They were soaked through, and half the cars that passed shot back waves of water drenching them further. At the same time, they saw it—Circus-Circus Books at the end of the block.

There were more magazines in here than anyplace. By the door was a high cashier counter where a young gayboy, wearing a leather vest and a white t-shirt, watched over the store. He was incredibly interested in the boys who went into the gay porn section but could care less about what happened in the rest of the store. As far as he was concerned, you could hang out and read all day.

Casey slowly walked past the racks.
Elle, Vogue, Marie-Claire
—the girls with the perfect faces—perfect bodies section. She was never going to look like that, never going to have that life. She found the travel mags. On the cover of
Travel and Leisure
was a kayaker on a lake in British Columbia. It wasn't Montana, but it looked pretty close to what she thought Montana would look like. As Casey flipped though the pages, she felt herself salivate. She couldn't believe it. How stupid can you get? Salivate over a guy or something. But over a field of wildflowers? Casey looked behind her and saw Dragon leafing through
People
. On the cover was
The 50 Most Beautiful People
. But she wasn't looking at the pages. She was staring at Casey.

“Find Dog-Face's picture in there?” Casey said.

“Oh, yeah. There's a shot of him relaxing with a Corona at the Fountain.”

“He can be an asshole sometimes,” Casey said. “Don't worry about it.”

Dragon gave her a ‘I know' shrug.

Casey liked her. She wasn't like the rest. Smarter, more together. And not stupid enough to do what she did. Dragon would've run right past Lodge—straight out the door. Not her. She had to go at it with him … She heard Lodge's groan as the knife went in. The feel of the blade sinking deep into his flesh. It was haunting her … She tried to shake it—but her hand still held the knife, wet with blood.

The rain was gone, or at least they thought it was gone. After hours in Circus-Circus, Casey and Dragon had just reached the Fountain's rusted fence when it started pouring again. They squeezed under the fence and made a run for it, splashing across the yard which the rain had turned into a shallow pond.

Casey pulled back the boards on the crumbling porch, dropped down into the basement—and landed in a sea of mud. It covered her shoes, past her ankles. Before she could call back a warning, Dragon had dropped down beside her. Dragon instantly lost her balance, rocked backward, and just managed to grab one of the wood pillars and catch herself from falling into the muck. Water, cold and miserable, was streaming in all around, and Casey couldn't wait to get inside.

She pulled herself up through the living room floor and Dragon followed. Everyone was there—Jumper, June Bug, Dream, and Dog-Face. They were sitting on the sleeping bags and talking rat-a-tat-tat, like she and Dragon showed up in the middle of a fight. But as soon as they came through the hole, the talking stopped. All at once. Casey looked around. Everyone had strange looks. Something bad happened.

“Hey,” she said.

“We were worried about you,” Jumper said.

“I was with Dragon. Doggie didn't tell you?”

“You know, everything's crazy now,” Jumper said. “Saint Paul's gone. Tulip gets it, and there's like a thousand cops still trying to figure out who taxed the mayor's buddy.”

“That's the truth,” Dream said. “The Boulevard's gonna be all fucked up till they get that guy.”

“Something was wrong, Casey thought. Definitely.

“They didn't bust the squat?” Casey said.

“They didn't have to,” Dog-Face said.

Casey looked around. Everyone was staring at them. Did they know?

“What are you talking about?” she said.

“We got a cop right here. Remember. I told you that before,” Dog-Face said.

“On the street?”

“No. Here. Right here”

“Right.”

“He
is
right,” Jumper said, “For once in his fucking life, Doggie is right.”

“What?” Casey said.

“Know how you and Dragon were hanging at Starbucks before I came in?” Dog-Face said. “And remember how you guys looked at me like I had fucking AIDS when you saw me?”

“What are you taking about?” Casey said.

“I'm talking about two bitches all happy together, and then I come, and they take the fuck off. But when I showed up, what was Dragon doin'? …”

Casey didn't answer.

“Come on, tell me—”

“What's it matter?” she said.

“I'll tell you what she was doin'—she was on the phone. I ask who she's calling. She says the hospital where Mary's at. So after Dragon gets all pissed and blows, and you follow her, I go up and ask if I can make a call, too. Guy's okay. He says, yeah. I hit the re-dial button, and guess what? No hospital. I get a tone for a pager. She didn't call the hospital. She was checking in. She's a fucking cop!”

“You saying I'm a cop?” Dragon said.

Casey looked at Dragon. She was a kid. Just like them.

“Come on, Dog,” Casey said, “you're unbelievable.”

“I'm unbelievable? Hey, we've been fucked by her!” he yelled. “
I've
been fucked by her!”

“Dog, man, I'm
not
a cop!” Dragon shot back.

Casey didn't know what to think. Dog-Face was an asshole. Most of what he said was complete bullshit. But then, Casey became scared. She knew it wasn't true—but what if it was?

“We're all fucked,” Dog-Face said. “I didn't trust her from the first day she came here.”

He stood up and started towards Dragon.

“I'm not a cop—you're crazy!” Dragon yelled. She was shaking.

“She is,” Jumper said, “in here spying on us.”

“Guys—she's not!” Casey screamed, and turned to Dragon.

She couldn't be. No way …

But then it hit her—Dragon
did
make that call when she was sleeping. Calling the hospital? No street kid would ever call a hospital—they'd just go. And when did Dragon show up on the Boulevard—right after she killed the jerk …

At that moment, Casey knew that Dragon
was
a cop.

She was fucked. She had told her everything.
Everything.

“Jumper, I'm not.” Dragon said, her voice lower, trying to calm things down.

“Fuck you're not!” Dog-Face yelled.

He pulled his knife from his boot.

“You're crazy, Dog!” Dragon yelled back, staring at the knife.

“Cops don't have real enough shit to do?” Jumper said. “You gotta come here and fuck up our lives?”

“I'm not, man! I'm not!”

“I think you are.”

“Dog—I'm not!”

“Gotta spy on a bunch of kids? Admit it—you're a cop!” Dog-Face yelled.

Casey looked at his face—the knife—Dragon. The knife shot up from Dog-Face's side and, yelling, “Don't fuck with me!” he lunged at Dragon.

Dragon jumped out of the way, but Dog-Face still sliced her right arm with it, slashing a gash from her shoulder straight down to her elbow.

Dragon screamed in pain. Her shirt instantly ran red.

Dragon staggered backwards, holding her bleeding arm—when running up behind her was Jumper. He grabbed Dragon around her waist, so the next time Doggie stabbed, he wouldn't just get her arm.

Dragon screamed, “Don't do this! Don't do this. Please!”

Casey knew they were going to be her last words.

Doggie was going for her—all rage. This time he'd ram that knife in Dragon's throat, her stomach, her heart.

Paul. Tulip. And now Dragon?

“Doggie!” Casey yelled with everything she had, “Stop it, man!” She ran at him—and threw her whole body into his chest, dropping him to the ground. And in that instant, Dragon sank her teeth into Jumper's arm.

“Fuck!” he screamed, and let Dragon go.

Dragon spun around and kneed Jumper hard into his balls. He popped over in pain. Dragon scrambled across the room and jumped through the hole in the floor. As she dropped down, she threw a look back at Casey—and then Casey ran as fast as she could, past Dog-Face, past Jumper, past them all, and went through the hole after Dragon.

Dragon was a few feet ahead of her, pushing through the mud. She could see Dragon struggling to get traction, ducking under low beams, and grabbing the wood pillars to pull herself forward. Casey could hear somebody—it had to be Dog-Face—jumping down through the floor just behind her. Out of breath, Casey struggled through the mud. Dragon glanced back over her shoulder, and looked surprised to see Casey. But she waved her hand for Casey to catch up. Casey knew they were after her too.

Casey tried to run faster—but her feet were slipping. Dog-Face was just behind her. Fuck the mud! Fuck it all! She quickly looked back. Dog-Face was getting closer. She had never seen him this crazy. Her lungs were throbbing. Her legs were running out of juice. She was freaking-out scared. Dog-Face was gaining on her—and her feet slipped out from under her, and she fell down.

This was it. Her knees, hands, everything, was covered in mud. Stopped cold. She turned back to see Dog-Face charging her, faster than ever.
But no way was it over! Not Lodge! Not Doggie! Not anyone!
She scrambled back onto her feet, and as much as she hurt, she was back running.

Dragon was ahead, by the hole leading out. Casey now ran like she had spiked track shoes on. Dog-face was almost close enough to grab for her. But fuck it all! She reached the hole out. Dragon's good arm dropped down for her to grab. She took it and was out of the hole.

Rain was crashing down all around. Casey was just out, when she saw Dog-Face—just behind her. He jerked his body through the opening, and stood up looking for them—when from behind Dragon swung a long two-by-four board straight into his side. Dog-Face screamed and fell to the ground. Dragon raced through the rain, across the yard, and out under the fence to the street. Casey followed her to the street—running, stumbling, heaving for breath.

59
Jimmy

T
he car was stopped dead in traffic. The wipers shoved off another wave of rain. Erin slid the back of her palm across the windshield to clear a swath of fog, and leaned forward to try and figure out what was holding them up.

Jimmy scooped up the Chinese stress ball. He gave it a shake, and as the vibrations went up his arm, he went over all they knew for certain, and what was unproven but undeniable—like Erin's take on the book, which almost twenty years of being a cop told him had to tie in. Even by LA standards, this case—with its baby hookers, a covering up coroner, and camera-happy vic—was crazy-fucked-up. Jimmy hated wacky conspiracies, not to mention the jerks that make their living promoting them. If with Kennedy, there was another shooter along with Oswald, how come in the all the years since it happened, miraculously, not one person ever came forward? No way. People's mouths are too big. Same for O.J.—they want you to believe that with amazing speed and efficiency, half the LAPD was supposed to have gotten together and worked out a completely flawless plan to frame him, and then not a single cop spills the beans. Bullshit. Big conspiracies don't work. But little ones, with a tiny enough group, they worked just fine. He wondered if that was what was going on here.

The traffic crawled another two feet.

“Oh, that's great,” Erin said.

Jimmy leaned forward to the windshield's clear spot and saw what she did. Ahead was the nastiest intersection in West Hollywood: La Cienega and Third, with San Vicente slicing through at a diagonal. A very thin truck, little more than a rolling billboard, was trying to make an illegal left turn. It was jammed in the middle of the intersection, surrounded by honking cars in an untieable knot. Of course, Jimmy thought, the one thing in traffic that didn't have to actually go someplace, was messing it up for everyone who did. The rolling billboard read,
More Police Officers. More Firefighters. More For Our Schools. YES ON 120—WE NEED IT.