Hard Bite (2 page)

"You get towel service with Platinum."

I know this already because it says so on the poster. I also know the facility is handicap access and by law, there has to be at least one shower you can roll a chair into, usually equipped with a hand-held shower wand.

"Would you like a tour?"

"Nope I just want to sign up and get in there."

Paperwork and a credit card later I'm rolling back to the van, supposedly to get my gym bag. I keep an old backpack full of monkey treats in the rear. My plan is to empty it and convince Sid to get in so I can smuggle him into the shower.

He's shivering on the front seat. I make a mental note never to travel without a blanket again. He doesn't look happy, but lets me coax him into the bag with a treat, and zip it over his head.

I hear a little monkey sigh something like, "What a frickin' night."

I pat the bag. "It's okay, Sid. Hot shower coming up."

Too bad there's no beer, he could use a drink.

The desk guy gets me a towel and doesn't notice the faint chewing sound coming from the backpack.

Sure enough, in the men's change room there's a cripple shower. I pull the curtain closed and unzip.

Sid rolls his eyes up like,
WTF
?

I get the shower going—a gentle spray, nice and warm, and for once Sid doesn't complain about getting a bath. Two liberal soapings and he's good as new. Not a mark on him.

I rinse the backpack, intent on drying it at the hand blower before getting Sid back inside. I shove the curtain open and in the shower opposite a woman has her back to us. A woman. This is the men's change room. Curvy hips and nice round butt cheeks, small waist—here comes my hard-on. She turns around, soaping her breasts, and we both scream at the same time. She has a dick. Not a big dick like those operated-on she-males that are just guys with implants—but a real little two-inch soft dick with pussy lips below.

He-she is bug-eyed at a monkey in the room, and my jaw is hanging, looking from titties to dick, dick to titties. We make eye contact.

"EXCUSE ME," we both shout at the same time.

She snaps the curtain shut, and I wheel the hell out of there.

Sid and I get back to the van without incident Have to admit, I'm a little shaken. Some people have their bodies altered by accident, like me. Others come out of the womb that way. I'll remember that the next time I want to feel sorry for myself.

***

Back in the van, I call Cinda.

"Sid's okay."

Cinda makes a relieved sound. "There's a coin-op carwash at Norwalk and Del Amo."

"In Lakewood?"

"More like Hawaiian Gardens."

"Gangbanger Gardens?"

"'Fraid so. I could send you to Cerritos, but there's more police presence."

"I'll take my chances with the Mexican mafia."

"Stay in touch."

The carwash is a bargain for six quarters and the change machine even works. It's one of those open air, cement-stall drive-in places where you work the hose yourself. Nobody's here, no pedestrians, hardly any traffic on the wet streets. I throw the van doors wide, put Sid on my shoulder and turn the high pressure hose on the interior. It's going to be a squishy ride back to LA.

We're nearly done when Sid does the unexplainable—he leaps away and goes bounding down a back alley.

I roll after him, whisper-shouting his name—the last thing we need is attention from the locals. Grimy, cinderblock garages line the alley. One has the door up, spilling a square of light onto cracked cement. Sid stops in the dingy yellow and cringes, watching. The tortured sounds of an animal stands hair up on my neck.

A man with his back turned is hanging a muscular pit bull to death. It gags and jerks, drool dripping from the swollen, protruding tongue. Another dog, scabbed and scarred, is tied close, barking like hell—the graceless end of a failed fight dog.

"Let the dog down!" I hear myself command, immediately thinking
what the fuck am I doing
?

The dog convulses. His executioner, a scrabble-survived son of the third world, whirls, and laughs.

"What you going to do?"

I said, "CUT THE DOG DOWN."

"Hey man, you look dead already, maybe I help you faster."

He leers in my face, as a rock smacks the bridge of his nose. I don't have to look—Sid is a sure shot with projectiles. I lash out my steel hand and catch a corner of the guy's mouth, ripping it open to his ear. He falls, gurgling blood, and I slash the hanging dog free—he thuds to the dirt, hauling great gulps of air. The tied dog gnaws ravenously at his own rope.

We don't wait to see the credits. Sid leaps onboard as my chair reverses out. The tied pit breaks free. One mighty lunge, and his slavering jaws lock around the fallen man's windpipe. We clear the garage door, ram into forward gear and beat it up the alley. Grisly sound effects—gargle, snarl, crunch, rip—fade from earshot.

My van is still okay in the wash bay. We need to be quiet—super quiet—and it feels like forever getting Sid secured in the front, the ramp back down, then back up again, and my chair locked into place behind the wheel. We pull out as the two pits lumber into view, drooling red. They look sorry they missed us and head right back down the alley. We don't wave goodbye.

Sid seems to be okay on the way home, responding to commands and helping me with the hand controls. We make it back, through the dark, drizzling streets. The few drivers we meet seem distracted and concentrating on the slippery road. My van doesn't even register on their radar.

Cinda meets us in the apartment. She has the news on, plus the police band radio, but there's nothing. Yet. For hours we sit together on the couch, listening and watching, while Sid sleeps between us. We avoid the subject of traceable evidence.

"I have to go soon," Cinda says. "You okay?" She moves gently away from Sid, snoring like a band saw. She wanders over to my desk.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

Her bottom plunks on the desktop and she spreads her legs almost wide enough for a cheerleader split. Her red thong doesn't cover anything it's supposed to. I mentally thank the manufacturer.

"I'm feeling a little tense myself. Think you can help me out here?"

I'm already rolling toward her. Thong, your days are numbered.

Under a rain-washed dawn in Lakewood Park, a lone deputy busies himself with yellow crime-scene tape. It coordinates in an ironic sort of way with the lush and leafy surroundings. Down the street, an unmarked Dodge Charger pulls over without attracting the deputy's attention.

Detective Doug Coltson gets out. His sandy hair is unusually thick, but only his wife knows, because he keeps it buzzed halfway up the back and well-mowed on top. Once, his wife said she might like it a bit longer and hinted about getting rid of his moustache, so he had to deliver the news on how a hairless baby face gives perps the wrong impression—without flat-out telling her it was the worst idea she'd ever had. Their rose-colored bedroom set and frilly pillows he can live with, but his buzz-cut and moustache are sacred. She never mentioned it again.

The morning is still so fresh, the grass sparkles. Doug presses on it with one rubber-soled Rockport—sodden, but not muddy. Before stepping on it, he text-messages his whereabouts to Tabby, who will be waking with the children soon, to find him already gone. One thing 38 years of living has taught him—thirteen on the force, ten years of marriage, three working homicide; you can never communicate with the wife too often about where you are and what you're doing.

He plants his left Rockport squarely on the green, notes that the deputy's back is still turned, and uses this moment of calm to gain the overview, the wide angle. His eyes sweep the park's expanse. There. A figure sprawled at the base of a Jacaranda tree with a hedge blocking any view from the street. Other than that, nothing seems out of place. Pre-rush hour, the parking lot has only two cars in it—one is the deputy's black and white. The nearby neighborhood slumbers. Sometimes Doug can sense events at a homicide intuitively, through a sixth sense beyond touching or seeing. He doesn't over-analyze where the ability comes from. Some things are better garaged in the mind with a tarp thrown over them for good measure.

Trudging along with the bottom of his trousers dampening, Doug keeps a steady pace. The Jacaranda trees at this end of the park scatter purple petals all over the green grass. Near the deputy, he clears his throat. The man looks up.

"Mornin' Detective." The deputy holds out a sign-in clipboard.

"That Mustang here when you arrived?" Doug nods toward the only car in the lot other than the deputy's black and white. The Mustang sits under the closest living witness to the crime scene—a leafless Chinese elm. The tree's bare limbs twist skyward, as though shock has caused its leaves to drop overnight.

"Yes sir, it was."

"Morning quiet so far?"

"Real quiet for that guy over there, anyway." He holds the tape back.

The fallen man appears to be in his twenties. A body's worth of blood—from the wide pool around the man to the spray-painted hedge—seems to originate from a neck wound. He's frozen in a running position, legs kicking, with undisturbed Jacaranda petals resting on his jeans. From the tilt of his head, the man seems to be looking at his shoulder in terror. Hard to tell with a body in cadaveric spasm, the face could have constricted involuntarily. His jacket is half off and something bulges in the pocket. Doug pulls on a pair of latex gloves and carefully removes the man's wallet. A union ID card and driver's license indicates one Hector Stamos lives at a Northridge address.

Over in the parking lot, a couple of patrol vehicles pull up—local officers get out bright-eyed and review the scene. Doug retraces his steps across the grass and hands the license to the sign-in deputy. "Get one of the guys to run this ID would you?" He returns to the base of the Jacaranda.

Something is a little off-kilter, but Doug can't place it. Damn it there goes his scalp, tingling and contracting—a physical warning signal. If he were a dog, the hair on his neck would be standing up. What the heck is that? Maybe he has to stop watching those vampire shows with the kids. The garaged thing in his mind, under the tarp, telegraphs that the vampire explanation is bullshit.

***

A Los Angeles Sheriff's Department crime-scene photographer, a veteran on the force, arrives and waves. Doug motions for him to enter, then pulls out his cell and texts the Department of Coroner. His glance falls on the Chinese elm again, the one in shock from what it saw last night. The tree and the Mustang are already taped off, but that hasn't stopped officers from gathering and staring. The young pups on patrol are eager to get a shot at homicide experience. Doug understands, he's stood in their shoes, however many years ago. He ambles over.

"Sweet ride," one of the officers comments.

"Morning guys."

The group respectfully hangs back to let Doug look. Eight under the hood with custom-tinted windows and after-market Rockford Fosgate sound. Loud. Original rims.
A gangsta would have added rims
, Doug thinks. Moving to the side he squints at the paint. Runs a finger over the wheel well. Sniffs it, then the side panel.
Fresh paint-job on the front end.
The door opens easily. From behind the sun visor, an envelope plops onto the front seat, spilling wads of hundred dollar bills over the floor.

"Wasn't a robbery, then," he says to no one in particular.

One of the officers hoots.

"Get forensics over here, would you?"

A dozen yards away, a van from the Department of Coroner turns in, and a medical examiner Doug doesn't recognize—an intent young Asian woman—signs in and enters the crime scene, lugging her hefty coroner's tote.

To the disappointment of the pups, Doug closes the Mustang and walks back over to the sign-in deputy. They stand silently as the ME and photographer exchange words over the body. "That's the new gal," the deputy says, nodding at the medical examiner. "Name's Claire Toyama."

Doug tries not to sound underwhelmed at the prospect of a newbie examiner on the case. He keeps his voice low. "Did she say a knife wound?"

"Not yet she didn't."

Claire's hand wavers over her medical tote. It's shaped like a box for fishing tackle, with fold-out compartments. The deputy snorts. "Here we go. Bet she pulls out some fancy crap when a paper bag would work."