Los Angeles After stopping at not one, but two West Hollywood stores, and a side trip downtown to grab a latte for Chris, at a new Espresso cafe he’d heard a lot about, they took surface streets back to Chris’s Silver Lake home. From Figueroa Street they swung north toward Sunset, passing the distinctive Bonaventure Hotel and the downtown Marriott.
Des chattered animatedly all the way, hands waving as he described what he had seen in each store. Des was never more in his element than when he was trashing the competition.
“Did you see that green thing in that storefront? I mean, is Joan Collin’s campy slut look back? And where on earth did they find those hideous shoes? Even the Olsen twins would be repulsed by those. I don’t care if they were Jimmy Choo’s.”
“You don’t even sell women’s clothes, hon. What do you care what they wear?”
“Honey, I don’t, but I still have to walk the planet with them. Wearing something that butt ugly can ruin even my appetite.”
Ahead of them were the Santa Ana and the Hollywood freeway overpasses. Chris saw the flashing lights of a white, unmarked CHP car that had pulled over some hapless driver on the freeway ramp. The uniformed officer was standing behind the driver’s side door, reading something the driver had handed him while traffic streamed past them.
Before they had passed the access to the ramp, the khaki-suited cop strolled back to his vehicle with the red lights pulsing inside. Instinctively Chris looked at the speedometer, but he wasn’t speeding, probably why everyone else was passing him.
52 P.A. Brown
Des seemed to notice where his gaze was because he said,
“You know, ever since you and David hooked up, you’ve become a real Nelly drive safe. I liked the old, reckless Chris.”
“No you didn’t. How many times did I have to listen to you complain that I needed a keeper, that I was always getting into trouble?”
“Well, I never really meant it.”
Chris took a sip of latte, and found it was still too hot. He sloshed coffee into his lap and cursed. The cup tumbled out of his hand and he reached for it, resting his chin on the steering wheel while he groped for it under the seat, before it could dump its contents on his carpet, and stain it.
They headed into the shadow of one of the dozens of overpasses that turned the downtown interchange into a spaghetti ride. The roar overhead from the two freeways, and the nearby Pasadena freeway, penetrated the sealed vehicle, and thrummed through his feet. Movement on the top of the overpass caught Chris’s eye, and he peered upward, confused.
“What the—”
Something tumbled onto Figueroa right in front of him. He yelled and jerked the steering wheel hard right, slamming on the brakes at the same time. Tires squealed and the Escape shuddered as it impacted something, then was rear ended by the vehicle behind them. There was the sickening crunch and scream of tearing metal and shattering glass.
The last thing Chris remembered were the air bags deploying in an explosion of powder. He was slammed back into the seat.
Beside him Des cried out.
Then there was only the tick-tick of cooling engine parts.
Steam hissed from the punctured radiator. The Escape listed alarmingly to one side. Chris could barely move. Or speak.
When he tried to call out to Des, all he could do was manage a weak, “Des, you okay? Please, Des...”
In the distance all he could hear was the roar of traffic overhead.
“Hang on, hon,” he whispered. “Someone’s coming.”
L.A. BONEYARD 53
He tried to turn his head, to look out the side window, but he couldn’t move, left or right. Out of the corner of his eye he could see someone approach the driver’s side door. He tried to call out, to let them know he was okay, but not even a croak emerged this time. He could hear heavy breathing, but didn’t know if it was his own or Des’s. Every time he tried to suck in air, pain lanced through his chest. His vision
Des chattered animatedly all the way, hands waving as he described what he had seen in each store. Des was never more in his element than when he was trashing the competition.
“Did you see that green thing in that storefront? I mean, is Joan Collin’s campy slut look back? And where on earth did they find those hideous shoes? Even the Olsen twins would be repulsed by those. I don’t care if they were Jimmy Choo’s.”
“You don’t even sell women’s clothes, hon. What do you care what they wear?”
“Honey, I don’t, but I still have to walk the planet with them. Wearing something that butt ugly can ruin even my appetite.”
Ahead of them were the Santa Ana and the Hollywood freeway overpasses. Chris saw the flashing lights of a white, unmarked CHP car that had pulled over some hapless driver on the freeway ramp. The uniformed officer was standing behind the driver’s side door, reading something the driver had handed him while traffic streamed past them.
Before they had passed the access to the ramp, the khaki-suited cop strolled back to his vehicle with the red lights pulsing inside. Instinctively Chris looked at the speedometer, but he wasn’t speeding, probably why everyone else was passing him.
52 P.A. Brown
Des seemed to notice where his gaze was because he said,
“You know, ever since you and David hooked up, you’ve become a real Nelly drive safe. I liked the old, reckless Chris.”
“No you didn’t. How many times did I have to listen to you complain that I needed a keeper, that I was always getting into trouble?”
“Well, I never really meant it.”
Chris took a sip of latte, and found it was still too hot. He sloshed coffee into his lap and cursed. The cup tumbled out of his hand and he reached for it, resting his chin on the steering wheel while he groped for it under the seat, before it could dump its contents on his carpet, and stain it.
They headed into the shadow of one of the dozens of overpasses that turned the downtown interchange into a spaghetti ride. The roar overhead from the two freeways, and the nearby Pasadena freeway, penetrated the sealed vehicle, and thrummed through his feet. Movement on the top of the overpass caught Chris’s eye, and he peered upward, confused.
“What the—”
Something tumbled onto Figueroa right in front of him. He yelled and jerked the steering wheel hard right, slamming on the brakes at the same time. Tires squealed and the Escape shuddered as it impacted something, then was rear ended by the vehicle behind them. There was the sickening crunch and scream of tearing metal and shattering glass.
The last thing Chris remembered were the air bags deploying in an explosion of powder. He was slammed back into the seat.
Beside him Des cried out.
Then there was only the tick-tick of cooling engine parts.
Steam hissed from the punctured radiator. The Escape listed alarmingly to one side. Chris could barely move. Or speak.
When he tried to call out to Des, all he could do was manage a weak, “Des, you okay? Please, Des...”
In the distance all he could hear was the roar of traffic overhead.
“Hang on, hon,” he whispered. “Someone’s coming.”
L.A. BONEYARD 53
He tried to turn his head, to look out the side window, but he couldn’t move, left or right. Out of the corner of his eye he could see someone approach the driver’s side door. He tried to call out, to let them know he was okay, but not even a croak emerged this time. He could hear heavy breathing, but didn’t know if it was his own or Des’s. Every time he tried to suck in air, pain lanced through his chest. His vision
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