Lilly

Michael Stanson stared at his reflection in the black screen of the Sony television set.  His room at the Hollywood Motor Motel on Sunset Boulevard was bleak and filthy. The couple upstairs was fighting again. They started early tonight. It always began with loud obscenities. Their rows had progressed to violence in the three months he’d been living in this dive.
 
Twelve years of writing on a hit TV crime drama came with a rented house in Beverly Hills and a huge salary Mike was only too eager to spend. The network said that the show's lag in viewer ratings was because critics dubbed it the most graphic violence on TV. With that came a team of new writers and Mike lost the job.  He took a lot of bad press, The Hollywood Reporter dubbed him as "too wacko" for prime time television. 

The stupid irony was they hired him because the network wanted violence.  He walked away and didn't turn back.  In the beginning, he got a few bids for a book or a screenplay, but nothing came through.  His former agent claimed he couldn't find any parties even interested in publishing his autobiography.  The credit cards ran out two years later; Rodeo Drive Realty Company finally evicted him for back rent.

Where are my friends now?

He glanced over at his dusty laptop computer that sat idle on a table in the corner of the tiny room. Mike rubbed his tired and aching eyes.

Where’s Elana now?

He picked up the new issue of Vanity Fair and glanced at the cover again.  Elana, scantily-clad, graced the page with her usual supermodel looks.  He bolted from the threadbare couch and headed to the door.  He stopped at the dull and cracked mirror that hung above the old dresser.  He ran his fingers through his thick black hair. Thank God, I’ve got my hair.  All these fat, bald bastards.

At thirty-seven, he had a handsome face with quick brown eyes.  As he turned and spied his body in the mirror, his six foot frame was beginning to look thin and worn.  The meeting this afternoon with another fat and bald bastard, Dave Turner at Nebula Pictures turned out like the rest.

“Thanks, Mike … is it? Great script. Got your number.”  His wide smile revealed a row of teeth, in between each, the chewed remainder of his lunch still lingered.

“I’ll be callin’ ya.” His breath was a burst of garlic and stomach bile.  Everything about Dave Turner was fat, his face, even his neck.  He grabbed Mike’s hand in his fleshy one and squeezed.  Mike could feel the sharp pain up his arm and into his shoulder.

A woman’s voice screaming, “Nooooo!”  Snapped Mike out of his bitter and obsessive thoughts.
 
The walls of this fleabag motel were closing in on him. He found his keys and looked at a sheet of paper resting on the table. Notice to pay rent or quit. The words burned in his head. I gotta get out of here; Mike’s thought was panicky. From the ceiling above came a slam, silence, then sobbing. 

Mike beat it out the door, running down the single flight of stairs, through the dirty and dingy little space that was the lobby, and out onto Sunset Boulevard.  Even the sticky carbon monoxide felt good in his lungs. His mind and feet wandering; he hadn’t realized he was walking east down the boulevard.  The girls and boys were in their usual spots; special corners, street lamps and trash bins.  Business looks slow for hookers in this town, too, he mused.

“I’m an idiot,” Mike said to himself aloud, passing a filthy and hooded bum.

The man glared at Mike.  “My name’s Baby Ruth, like the candy bar!” 

Mike smiled, “Yeah, full ‘o nuts.” 

Baby Ruth said that every time Mike passed him for two months now.  Where would I go?  Mike pondered.  Back to New York. If the old car will make it and I can afford the gas … I’m goin’ be homeless in two days anyway.  Mike didn’t notice the red light at the crosswalk.  A freighting black Hummer honked him out of his reverie.  A transvestite waved at him, inquiring affectionately as to whether or not he was all right.

Panic swelled up inside his bowels, it felt like his entrails were pulled as tight as a drum. He stepped back and up onto the curb.  Mike heard the din of conversation and Latin music oozing from the open door of a bar behind him. The last ten spot in his pocket and a sudden need for a drink persuaded him to enter.

* * *

The small, dark bar was crowed for a weeknight.  Lonely drunks guarded the entrance, as if sentinels appointed the self task of admittance or denial to a new visitor.  They stared at him and then approvingly turned away.

The bar held standing room only.  He'd walked further than he thought and needed a seat.  A small dance floor next to a pool table took up much of the space. Two couples were dancing the Macarena under a small disco ball.  It illuminated the shadows of the dancers with circling pinpoints of white light.

Mike looked into another shadow that gave way to reveal a corner table occupied by a solitary woman.  He hesitated to determine if she might be joined by someone.  After a good five minutes and no one in sight to claim her, he walked up to the table.  She stared into her glass.

“Mind if I take a seat, have a beer. I won’t bother you or anything.”  Mike spoke to the top of her head and flowing blond hair.  She didn’t look up.  She continued to stare into her frothy cocktail.  Mike looked for someone to take his order. 

“Sure.” She finally replied.

Mike focused his attention back to the woman at the table.  She was gorgeous.  This woman is hot, Mike observed.  She seemed very out of place here.  Mike wasn’t sure which was more intriguing her looks, or the fact that she was in this obscure dive of a bar.

A red-headed waitress was at Mike’s shoulder. “What’ll it be?”  She asked.

Mike turned, “Ah, a beer … I guess, how much?”

She became impatient. “Bottle or tap, import or domestic, light, dark, which?  And, seven bucks.”

"Seven dollars for a beer? Why?"

"Because the boss says so." She looked him up and down. "He likes to keep out the riff raff."

“How much for a Heineken light . . . bottle, if I pass the riff raff test?” Mike asked.

"Three-fifty." She smiled and rushed away with his order.  He thrust his hand in his pocket and checked for his cash.  Mike moved to the table and sank into the chair.  He looked up to see the young woman was swaying to the music.

“Say,” Mike decided to volunteer, “What’s a nice girl like you doin' in a place like this?”

She took a deep sip of her cocktail.  She wasn't much older than legal drinking age; Mike took her for a model or actress.  You said you wouldn't bother her.  He reminded himself and turned to watch the couples dancing.

“This town is easy,” she said in a seductive tone, “If you’re smart.”

Mike turned back to her, “Excuse me?”  She appeared older now than he first thought.

“Lilly. That’s short for Lillith.”  She was smiling and her face lit up, young and vibrant once more. 

“Three-fifty” The waitress announced, slamming the bottle and a glass on the table in front of Mike. He paid without taking his eyes off Lilly. 

“Thanks,” he said to the now absent waitress.

“Never seen you in here before. You’re an actor, right?”  She pointed her cocktail straw at him.

“I’m new in town.”  He lied as he poured the beer into the glass,  praying it would help his feet to stop aching.

“I was thinking you were an actress.”  Mike smiled and looked around.  “You a regular around here?  I mean . . . not that it’s a bad place or anything . . .”

“I like to watch the crowd, they’re interesting.  What’s your name?”  She asked moving her chair closer to him.

Her sudden interest in him was more than welcome.  “Mike.”  He answered and relaxed.  “Lillith.  That’s a very interesting name.  Do you know the story of Lillith?”

"Legend has it she was the first vampire."  She gripped the small straw between thumb and forefinger poking at the bubbly liquid in her glass.  “I mean, the first female one."  Lilly announced with confidence.

Mike smiled; and it felt good. "I'm not sure there's any vampires in the Bible, cuz the story I'm thinking of says she was Adam's first wife."  He paused and took a sip of his beer.  "Didn't like the settlement arrangements I guess, seems she turned into some kinda manhater."  He leaned in toward the table.  "You don't look like that kind of girl.  Besides, that's not the first divorce or angry ex-wife, I like your story better."

Lilly blushed then stared back into her drink.  "So, Mike what do you do?” 

“Between jobs.”  He emptied his glass. This town easy?  Wonder have many days she's been in this town.

“How ‘bout you?  Got any mysterious and dark powers like your namesake?”  He teased.  “Tarot cards . . . crystals, you probably got an eight hundred number; Jamaican accent too.” 

She shot him a wry smile. Her scent was musky, smelling of sweet hot herbs.  His head began to swim.  Mike figured the beer he just downed went to his head.  His stomach was empty; he hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning.  The music stopped and the Bartender called closing time in ten minutes.

The remaining patrons hurried to the bar. Then a hushed whisper filled the room.

Mike was staring into Lilly’s eyes now.  They were gold, piercing and bright in the darkness of the bar.  He refilled his glass.  When he looked back at Lilly, he blinked his eyes. Her hair was different, not the style, but the color. Her blond hair was shiny and dark as a raven’s wing.

“How’d you do that?”  Mike puzzled. “Either I’ve got bad eyesight or I’m drunk. I could have sworn you were a blond when I sat down.”

“Must be the lighting in here, it does that.”  She replied and picked up his hand and examined his palm.

“That’s it,” quipped Mike. “You’re a palm reader. I forgot that one.”

* * *

Lilly laughed. “You have writer’s hands.” 

She was staring into him again. Oh, man, he thought, hope she isn’t somebody who knows somebody who knows me.  Several people arrived, accompanied by loud recognitions, greetings and familiarities.  Lilly dropped Mike’s hand and turned toward the front door.

Not bothering to turn around, Mike asked, “Friends of yours?”

“I know them.”  Lilly answered, not taking her intense gaze off the new arrivals.  Mike tilted his head to see a fat obnoxious man of about sixty, wearing a three piece suit.  His torso bulged out of his undersized clothing. Another fat, bald fuck, Mike observed.  The fat man was surrounded by three young women; his hands flailing in an attempt to grope different parts of their anatomy.  The girls laughed and slapped his attentions away; they didn't appear frightened.

“I’m not sure you keep the best company,”  He said as he turned back to Lilly. “I gotta ask you, why would a girl like you be here?  What’s with these friends of yours?”

Lilly took her eyes off the fat man and looked at Mike.  “I’m here for him,” she said in a dark and freighting tone.

Mike felt the skin on the back of his neck crawl. What’s with this chick? Is she wacked?

“He your husband or something?”  His palms were wet and clammy.

Lilly sat back in her chair.  Her eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry . . . ” she sniffled into the back of her hand.  She looked up at Mike and her eyes were blue orbs floating behind deep watery pools.  “Of course he’s not my husband. When I was at the Carriage Bar, the last time he hurt me.”  Lilly sat up and dabbed at her tears.  “He did hurt me bad.” 

“Did you call the police?”  Mike asked.

Lilly’s expression went blank. “He is the police. He’s a detective.”

“He tried to arrest you for lewd acts, or something?”  Mike inquired.

“Stop it,” snapped Lilly, she began to rise and leave their table. Mike grabbed her wrist pulling off a gold charm bracelet.

“Wait, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . .”  Mike began.

Lilly’s face was a mask of anger.

“Sit down,” pleaded Mike. “Okay, tell me. What’s going on?”

“Those girls with him,” She whispered and settled in her chair. “I know them. They work up at the Carriage Bar."

"It’s just west of here on Sunset." She turned back and looked in their direction. "He wants to hurt them, especially the little one with the red tee shirt.”  Lilly pushed gently into Mike’s arms. 

“Jack Simofsky. That’s his name. He comes in here sometimes. Mostly he likes the Carriage." She looked at Mike with innocent desperation. "He’s hurt a lot of girls up there. Maybe he’s planning on hurting these girls.” Lilly’s concentration was fixed on Simofsky again.

“A dirty cop?”  Mike looked over his shoulder to make sure Simofsky was still there, even though it was obvious. 

He was roaring and grunting like a pig. For a brief moment, Mike was back on the set in his mind.  There was something familiar about Simofsky. He reminded him of a character Mike once wrote for the show.  A psychopathic cop who butchered cocktail waitresses. 

Mike gave that thought a shudder and he turned back to Lilly and pressed the bracelet into her hand. “What did he do to you?”  He asked calmly.

“Outside in the parking lot . . . of the Carriage Bar . . . he . . .”  Lilly began as she fumbled with her gold bracelet.

The red-headed waitress was walking toward Mike now, asking whether she could get him something else.

Lilly motioned to the waitress approaching their table. “This is Mira,” she said. 

Mike looked up. Young and attractive like Lilly, she was smiling at both of them.

“Is he going to help us?”  Asked Mira.
 
Mike wished he’d never walked into this bar.

“Mira, bring our friend here another drink, on the house.” Lilly smiled at Mike. “You like Tequila?”

“Ah, I really should be going, it’s late.” Mike cleared his throat.

“I’ll be right back with a double shot of the good stuff.” Mira was gone as quickly as she appeared.

Lilly’s seductive scent was making Mike dizzy again. “Really, I’d like to help . . . but I’m just . . . I can’t help you.”

“You need to,” Lilly said.  “That money in your pocket is all you have. You’ve got no place to go.”

Mike was startled and then calmed again.  “It’s like I said, I’m between jobs is all.”

Mira was back at the table.  She placed a shot glass on the table in front of Mike. The gold liquid inside matched Lilly’s ever changing eyes.

“Is he going to help us, Lilly?”  Mira's tone was desperate. 

Lilly smiled at her knowingly.

* * *

Mike glanced up at Mira and his head began to spin.  He was positive he got a good look at her. A young and curvaceous redhead. This woman was old. I have lost it., Mike was trying to find his breath, this chick doesn’t look old, she looks dead.

Sunken eye sockets held Mira’s blank stare. Her skin was the pallor of a gray winter sky and her red hair was a mass of tangled white straw.  Mike rubbed his eyes. This isn’t happening, he convinced himself and looked back up at Mira. 

She was gone. 

Mike downed the glass of liquor and hesitated. He leaned into Lilly. “I think we both outta leave, now. If you’re not around this guy he can’t hurt you again.”

“He’s not just some guy,”  Lilly huffed. “You can help,” she paused and her gold eyes penetrated him, “and there’s money in it for you.”

He was drunk now; the eighty proof in the Patron had seen to that.  Only in L.A., he was thinking when he threw back his head and laughed.  “And what pretty lady would you have me do?”

“Roll him.” Lilly’s statement was cold and self assured.

“Mug a cop?” Mike’s smile melted. “Sorry, I don’t have any experience in that area.”

“You afraid of a fat old fuck like him?”  Lilly challenged.

Mike shook his head in disbelief. “Yeah, as a matter of fact I am.  He’s a cop.”

Lilly was staring in Simosky’s direction again. “He’s a bad cop. He kills people.”

“That’s what cops do.”  Mike slurred the words.

“Not like him.”  Lilly began to cry again. “Forget it. Forget I said anything. It’s never going to stop.  He’s never going to stop.  Until someone stops him.  Someone like you, Mike.” 

Her hand was on his thigh now and his jeans were feeling tight. She looked up at him, her eyes pleading innocent despair.  “Will you help?”  Her voice was a hot, close whisper in his ear now.  “It’s almost two and closing time’s soon.”

The crowd in the small bar had thinned to a trickle of shadowed figures, some leaned on the bar, and others came and went from the restrooms.  The traffic and street noise that drifted in from the front door had become hushed.  Mike’s head felt as if it would burst. Throbbing pain filled his skull. Maybe it was Lilly’s story about the fat cop that was bothering him or the fact that he was drunk. I hate bald fat fucks. I hate fat cops, too.

Lilly’s hand on his shoulder snapped him out of his stupor.  “The girls left, come on.” Lilly grabbed Mike’s arm and led him to the door.

“We leaving? ‘Bout time.” Mike said to Lilly as he glanced back and saw Simofsky alone at the bar settling his tab.

They stood at the bar’s entrance; the fat cop staggered out and passed them.  Mike could smell the gin wafting off him even though his head continued to pound with pain and pressure.

“My purse,” said Lilly, “I’ve got a huge jar of hand lotion in it that should do the trick.”  Outside the bar and on the sidewalk, there was no one in sight.  “Come on,” Lilly was pulling at Mike’s arm, “or we’ll lose him.”

Mike took a few steps toward the quiet parking lot where Simofsky was staggering slowly to his vintage 1969 Chevy Impala.  “Wait,” he stopped.  The shooting pain in his head caused Mike to lean against the wall; his eyes squeezed shut to blot out the blinding white light.

“I know how to make your head stop hurting.”  Lilly said, and thrust her handbag into Mike’s shaking hands. “Hurry! There’s no one here now, but the Bartender’s closing.”  She pressed, “Just knock the old bastard hard enough and take his wallet. There’s a lot of money in there. I deserve it. You need it.”

Head . . . going . . . to . . . explode.  Mike braced himself for the event. 

Lilly’s bag was heavy in his hands.  She was pushing him in Simofsky’s direction.  Head stop hurting . . . she knows how to stop it.  I have to kill this fucker. Mike began to walk in the fat cop’s direction.

Jack Simofsky was drunkenly fumbling with the ignition key. The lock in the car’s door was his ultimate target, the key his lance of entry.  He continued to stupidly miss the opportunity to drive his lance home.

“I have to kill him.”  Mike said over his shoulder to Lilly.

“I’m sorry.”  Lilly’s voice was distant and fading.

Mike felt as if he were walking in quicksand. It took all his strength to pull each foot up against the magnetic gravity that promised to swallow him.  Mike got closer to the fat cop and the bright white light and pain were gone from his head. As he raised the handbag up and over his shoulder he was flooded with euphoria. 

The bag swung silently through the air and slammed against the back of Simofsky’s head with a dull thunk. The fat cop stumbled back into Mike, tottering like a huge leaded chess piece. He fell over sideways cracking his fat head on the cement.

Mike was still serene as he looked down to see a thick pool of blood flow down the pavement from Simofsky’s head.  Bone and a piece of brain were visible on the ground just above where his skull rested.  Mike could breathe again.  He was no longer holding Lilly’s handbag and clenched at his throat.  He turned to look at Lilly.

She was gone.  In her place, the Bartender was speaking into a cell phone and holding a pistol aimed at Mike.

* * *

He didn’t know what time it was.  Mike stared at the mirror on the opposite wall of the police station interrogation room.  He was alone in the room now, but not for long.  Manslaughter, that's the best they can do was what his attorney said before his cell phone broke up.  That call was a while ago, that much he knew and his lawyer had not yet arrived.

The two cops interrogating him, using their nice cop, bad cop routine, were not interrogating him at all.  Only the same four or five questions and they asked them every half hour.  He insisted on a blood test.

"Stop talking, Mike, for God's sake wait until I get there."  His attorney said before taking another call.  Cop killer, that’s what he said was released to the press.  The phone call disconnected and Mike was questioned.
 
An older man with a mustache entered the room and looked him up and down.  He was wearing a jacket marked Coroner over the left pocket. He requested another blood test and Mike agreed.  He was weak, hungry and in grips of exhaustion. 

They made him repeat it over and over, that he didn’t even know Simofsky, that he was drugged by two women, that it was self defense.  The Bartender did not see Mike actually strike the drunk cop.  Simofsky had a gun.  Those were the facts Mike's lawyer said were in his favor, what wasn't was the fact that he may not be able to plea bargain his way out of killing a cop.

He told them where he thought the women might be found.  A place called the Carriage Bar.  He didn’t care the cops said everyone in the bar saw him alone.  All witnesses, including the Bartender, who found Mike over the body, said he walked in alone, sat alone and exited to the bar's parking lot.

They don’t wanna say anything, or get involved, that’s all. Good lawyer could get ‘em to talk; Mike believed that much was still true.

No one knew a "Lilly."  Nor did the bar employ a waitress named Mira.  Of course not, he realized, they’ve skipped town. Grabbed the wallet, they were in on it.  Now I’ve gotta explain this …I’ve gotta help these cops find them. Mike was panicking again.  The Coroner finished without looking at him, gathered up his sample and turned to leave.  He hesitated and turned back to look at Mike.  He shook his head and left the room.

Mike's eyes followed the Coroner out the door as two cops entered. One was an older veteran, the other one was younger. Junior and Senior, Mike dubbed them, he sensed the older cop was pissed off.  He took the role of nice cop.

“Find them yet?”  Mike searched his eyes. “The waitress?  You must have found the waitress?  They probably drove out of town.” Mike sat up in the chair, confident.

“I figured it all out, you see.  These two women drugged me, but it wasn’t any date drug.”  Mike pretended to smile. He continued, almost desperate, “I had a beer and a shot glass of something.  I can’t say what was in it. You guys checked my blood, right?”

The two cops exchanged a look.  “Tell me about these two women again.”  The Older Cop asked.

“I told you all I know. They drugged me.”  Mike knew his drug defense was wearing thin.  "So, they said this guy hurt them bad and I went to talk to him is all.  He said he'd kill me, he was drunk and he fell over.  Why am I here?"

“You said one of the girls mentioned another bar. What was the name of that bar?”  The Older Cop pressed.

Mike was exhausted. “She said it was called the Carriage Bar, okay?”

The younger cop stood and unfolded his arms to reveal pictures in his hand. He slammed a picture of Lilly on the table in front of Mike.

“Know her?”  Barked Junior.

“That’s her. Except she had black hair, I think.”  He looked at the Older Cop. 

Junior slammed another photo on the table. It was Mira, the red-headed waitress from the bar. “How ‘bout her?”

“She’s the waitress.  Find her and you find the woman who drugged me.”  Mike hesitated.  “Lilly said this Simofsky guy had a lot of cash. If that’s true, then they’re way out of town.  Why don’t you guys get on that?”

The Older Cop grabbed a chair and slammed it down next to Mike.  He sat and leaned into Mike’s face.  His breath was hot from Marlboros and thick with rage.

“Got some other pictures for ya, too.”  He motioned to the Junior cop, who walked over and tossed a sheath of papers across the table towards them. 

“Like to see your work?”  Junior smirked at Mike.

Mike looked at the eight by ten color photos of two corpses.  Horrific and bloody, Mike saw Lilly; blood everywhere, even pooled in her open and vacant blue eyes. Then he saw the handbag lying next to the body.  It was unmistakable.  He killed Simofsky with it. 

“What is this?  What happened . . . when was she killed?”  Mike’s chest was swelling with dread as he tried to understand what he was seeing. “I was just with this girl a couple of hours ago. I swear to God,” Mike was breathless.  “This other one . . . she’s a waitress there, I mean, I think she was a waitress there.”  Indicating Mira's photo.

“The Carriage Bar, you said?”  The Older Cop nodded.

Mike barely heard the old cop.  Lilly’s throat had been slit from ear to ear.  “I didn’t do this.” Mike moaned.

“Just answer the question.  What was the name of the bar?”  The Older Cop demanded his face red with controlled rage.

Mike tore his attention away from Lilly’s picture.  “I didn’t have anything to do with this and you guys aren’t gonna pin anything on me.”  He looked back down at the pictures.  Mira’s throat was also cut. Her face was missing both eyes and eyelids. She stared into the camera the same way she had stared at Mike at the bar. 

“Hey, muckrake, he said answer the question.”  Junior was in Mike’s face.

In both police photos, Jack Simofsky was next to the bodies, examining them.  In both pictures, the mustached man, wearing a Coroner’s jacket was pictured next to Simofsky.  Grim expressions appeared on both their faces. What is this? Mike’s mind begged him. 

“The Carriage Bar.”  Mike put the photos on the table in front of him.  These could not be the women he met. He stared at Lilly’s picture and the gold charm bracelet on her wrist.  For all I know, this is a fake photo and this chick’s some kind of cop, Mike convinced himself.  He spoke to the Older Cop.

“The woman, Lilly, told me that Simofsky was murdering girls"  Mike paused. "Said, he hurt her in the parking lot. That he hurt girls at a place called the Carriage Bar.”

The mustached man with the Coroner's jacket came into the room.  He handed files to the Older Cop who studied them and began to leave the room.

Mike flew out of his chair. “Him!” he hollered, pointing at the Coroner. “He’s in on this.”

Junior grabbed Mike from behind.  The Older Cop stood and calmed him. “Sit down, son.”  As the Coroner left the room, he looked at the Older Cop. “I’d chain this guy up if I were you.”

Mike sat and the Older Cop handed the files to Mike.  He looked up at Junior, who was also leaving the room.  Mike opened the first file and Lilly’s DMV photo jumped out at him. 

“Read the date of death, son,” the Older Cop said quietly.

“September 10, 1999.”  Mike looked up at the Cop. “That was ten years ago. That’s not right.  Wait a minute, you don't get it, I don't got nothin' to do with this shit.” 

The Older Cop motioned to the stack of files. “We’ve cross-checked your DNA against what was found on the victims’ bodies.”  He paused. “Been able to run six checks already. Six matches.”

The other file held Mira’s photo and the date of death read:  July 30, 2000.  "I sure hope you and your boys are good at framing innocent people.  I'll see to it they nail you to the wall.  Right to the wall."

“You wanna know where we found the bodies?” His voice was still low.

Mike shook his head no, but the Older Cop continued.

“Buried behind the parking lot of the Carriage Bar.”  He spoke slowly, “Seems there's more graves, too. Why?”  He asked, shaking his head.

“My attorney's gonna have your badge for this flatfoot.”  Mike eyes glowed.  "Go ahead.  All your charges are bullshit anyway."

The Old Cop took a deep breath and called for someone.  Two new cops entered.  He read him Miranda rights and waited.  "Do you understand?"  Mike nodded avoiding his eyes.

He motioned the officers forward who moved behind him and cuffed him.  The Old Cop looked at Mike.  Bound, the two officers pushed him forward, he halted and looked back at the older man.  Stanson looked insane, he'd seen it before.  The neon light flickered above, the Old Cop stared at Mike as he was led away.

Junior stepped up.  "You okay, Chief?  Look like ya just saw a ghost."  He asked chewing on a jelly donut. 

"What color are those guy's eyes?"  He asked.

Junior laughed.  "Shit brown, you saw 'em, why?"

"Cuz they turn gold."

"Too bad that's not the only thing wrong with him."  Junior remarked casually, licking his fingers.

"It isn't."  The tired old man mumbled, turned and shut off the light.  "A ghost?"  He asked and leaned against the doorway, shaking his head.  "You tell me."  He sighed and moved to his office's door.

Standing in the doorway he eyed the bulletin board behind his vacant desk that was plastered with case notes of identical murders dating back before even he was born.

A young detective approached.  "Chief, there's a woman from the press still here.  Won't leave."  She growled.

"I'm on it.  They'll have to get their information from the DA."  He responded and walked out into the station and approached the command officer.

"Where's the press that won't leave?"

The officer in command motioned his head to a woman who was standing directly behind him.  The Chief turned.

"I am from the press."  A tall and slim attractive young woman informed him.  Dressed in a business suit and in her 20's, she wore long shiny black hair, her dark eyes penetrating.  The old Chief was surprised at her stunning looks.

"However, I assure you my only interest here is that this individual receives the justice he deserves.  Which is to burn."  She stated without emotion.  "You see, my mother worked at the Carriage Bar until she went missing eleven years ago."

The old man's heart sank.  "We will require any information you can provide."  The Chief reassured her.

The young woman's eyes filled with tears.  "Thank you."  She whispered to him as he gently guided her to his office.  She looked at the old cop.  "My mother always said that this town was easy if you're smart."

"We're here to help."  The Chief offered a feeble attempt to comfort her.

The young woman looked down at the floor to hide her lips which curled into an evil smile.  They entered the office and disappeared behind the closed door.

***

The two police officers led Mike toward the holding cells of the Hollywood precinct. The hinged tactical handcuffs binding his wrists were cutting, the officers flanked him and held each of his upper arms in an unyielding grip.

“Where’s my lawyer?” He heard himself asking. Neither officer answered him. His vision was blurred. Mike felt as if he was waking from a nightmare. The sight of the cold bars and the holding cell snapped him back to reality.

“This way.” The big Black Cop said, indicating a cell. The other cop taunted Mike, slamming his face into the side of the cell's open door.

The Black Cop intervened. "Take it easy, man. I'm not takin' any heat for messin' this asshole's face up."

A Detective was at the entry of the holding cells. “Dawson, Taylor …” He was out of breath. “We’re on lockdown.”

The Black Cop’s badge read, Dawson. He left Mike’s side and approached the door. “Lock down? Why?”

“The Chief is dead.” The Detective paused.

Dawson froze. “. . . I just saw him a couple of minutes ago. Swear to God.”

“Get your prisoner situated and report to me immediately. No one is to leave the building. No one is to enter. Understood, Dawson?”

“Dead? From natural causes or …” Dawson shook his head.

“Worse.” The Detective was gone.

Dawson stared into space. “Understood, sir,” he answered in the Detective’s absence. Outside the entry to the holding cells, police, detectives and civilians were hurrying around. Mike was bleeding from his contact with the jail’s bars. He heard every word, but understood little. Taylor still had a firm grip on Mike’s cuffed arm. Before Dawson could turn around and walk back to Mike the electrical power went out, plunging entire station into total darkness

It took a few seconds before the station’s generator could kick in. The gloom was sinister. Mike could feel Taylor’s grip tighten even harder, if that was possible. The generator’s lights flickered on but gave only a dim luminance.

Mike was still looking in the direction of the entrance. He saw Dawson face down on the floor, a hooded black man was standing over him. He stared at Mike. Taylor’s grip released him as he turned to see a large woman place a taser gun to Taylor’s neck and discharge it.

He fell to the floor. “We must leave. Now.” The large Woman said in a deep, thick voice, with a pronounced British or Australian accent, Mike couldn’t tell. “Keep your mouth closed, put this jacket over your shoulders and we are going to walk out of here nice and calm.”

The Woman placed a varsity jacket over him to conceal his handcuffs. She guided him toward the cell exit, Mike stopped. “It’s locked down, or something. We can’t get out of here even if it wasn’t!” He said to them.

“Leave that to us.” The Woman replied, moving him toward the exit.

“Who is us?” Mike asked as he stepped over Dawson. “Did my lawyer send ya? I call this service. Whoever did I’ll be sure to thank ‘em, that’s a promise.”

"We are called the Singularity," was all the strange Woman would say. It was all fine by Mike, he didn't care if these guys were sent by the dissimilarity. The hooded man moved in front of Mike and the Woman, leading the way. No one noticed them as they walked out of lockup. Uniforms scurried around and there was a large crowd in front of the Chief’s office. Mike started in that direction.

“No.” The deep voice pleaded. “We must leave now. If we stay we will be detected.”

“I wanna know what’s goin’ on in this place. Whatever’s happened, I didn’t do it. Maybe they’ll believe me, now.” Mike turned and walked up to the office door. Looking in and past the others gathered, it was difficult to see. The generator’s lighting was faint. Mike could see the Old Cop behind his desk and slumped back in his chair. Getting closer, he saw that the Chief’s throat had been cut the same way as the women in the photographs; his tongue had been pulled out of the slit in his neck.

Mike had seen enough real horror for one night, but what had been done to the Old Cop was more gruesome than even he could imagine.

“Jesus Christ!” Someone yelled. It was Junior and he was standing right next to Mike. “Who would give the Chief a goddamn Bolivian necktie?” Junior whimpered.

Mike backed away with caution and out of the room. He felt a hand grab his elbow, it was the Woman. “We haven’t much time now. Hurry.”

“Wonder if they think I did that too.” Mike remarked. The Woman tugged at Mike‘s arm. The hooded man waited until Mike was in tow and led them to the front of the station. Not a soul looked their way. The Woman steered Mike past any objects or people. The precinct’s front entrance was only a few steps away.

“Hold on there!” Someone barked from behind them. Mike and his new friends stopped in their tracks. “That’s the Chief’s wife out there.” A plain clothes Cop pushed past them. Mike lost any hope he had regained. “I should be the one to handle this.”  The Cop said, opening the station’s front door. A middle-aged woman stood motionless.

The hooded man moved around the detective and the woman. “Go.” The deep voice said into Mike’s ear as he was pushed toward the door. The Cop was preoccupied as he held the sobbing woman. “Why, Johnny why?” She begged him through tears. Mike was terrified, but not enough to keep moving. He passed them, and walked out onto the street. Behind him, he heard the doors of the station close and lock. He drew a breath, halted and turned to see the Woman walking towards him.

Mike turned back to the hooded man standing in front of him. “I know you.”

The black man threw back his hood. “My name’s Baby Ruth! Like the candy bar. Love me some Baby Ruth!” Baby Ruth was gesturing a funky dance move. “Oh yeah.”

“That's it. The guy that’s been ‘round my place for a couple of months now.” Mike squinted at Baby Ruth. “Nice to meet ya, guardian angel homeless crazy person. Unless of course, you guys are gonna kill me. If not, thanks for savin’ me . . . I think.”

“Not so fast, slick.” The male voice replied to Baby Ruth as it approached. “Get in the van, you are not out of this yet.” Baby Ruth pulled up his hood and sulked.

“As for your life, Mike, that is exactly what we are attempting to save.” Mike looked to see a tall and muscular man in his mid-twenties dressed in woman’s clothing. He removed a blond wig to reveal a shaved head. His neck and scalp were intricately tattooed. He grumbled at Baby Ruth; who jumped into a white van parked only yards away and stared the engine.

“You’ll excuse Mr. Ruth. His enthusiasm is sometimes premature.”  The young man opened the back of the van. “I am Straton,” he bowed. “Please.” He gestured inside. “Get those nasty handcuffs off, hum?”

Mike stared at Straton. “You were outside that bar across the street.”

“Indeed, that Hummer nearly struck you.” Straton said, removing his clothing and pulling on a long dark robe which he draped himself him.

The guy looked like a monk at a rave, Mike observed and longed for his shabby room in the Hollywood Motor Motel more than he could ever imagine. Going from bad to worse was possible; Mike knew that now. He, literally, had nothing to lose. He got in, Straton secured the doors behind them. Once inside, he saw someone seated in the front passenger seat. A teenaged girl leaned over and peered at Mike.

Straton looked at Mike and then at the girl. “That’s right, Chloe. This is Mike and he is alive and appears to have his mind in tact.”

The young girl withdrew her gaze. Straton smiled at Mike. “Chloe is my apprentice, she is young.” Straton said as he clicked the lock open releasing Mike’s handcuffs. “We can thank her for her electrical prowess and keen timing.”

“She cut the power back there?” Mike asked. It was difficult to conceal his surprise, she was just a kid. “That’s all she cut, right?” He narrowed his eyes, staring at the back of the passenger seat.

Straton grinned. “Yes, only the power, I assure you.” He tossed the handcuffs aside. “She, like many of us, are a bit in awe of you.” He paused. “Of course, finding a victim alive is quite extraordinary.”

Mike rubbed the pain from his wrists. “Thanks,  man. Who are you people, really?” Straton offered him a bottle of water and a 711 variety package of trail mix. “And, trust me, I’m the furthest thing from awesome anybody can get.” Mike grabbed up the water and drank. “How did you do all that back there? I mean, I’ve heard about jail breaks but that was extraordinary.” Mike shook his head in amazement. “And, why me?”

“We were able to add enough CS gas to the filtration system to cause notable confusion for the people inside that building. You may have felt its effect, it is not harmful. As for why you, I do not know.” Straton answered as Baby Ruth drove away singing the words to “A Rose and a Baby Ruth.” He drew a sigh. “All in time.”

Mike lay back against a stack of folded blankets. Straton had informed him that the trip would take some time and where they were heading. He explained how important his safety had become. Soon, Straton’s voice lulled him into a stupor, he shut him out. The only fact Mike could process at that moment was that he was in a vehicle with three strangers. Whether he was on a road out of hell or on one leading deeper into it, he didn’t know. Before he could even begin to ponder that predicament, sleep overtook him.

Straton woke and sat up without waking Mike. Chloe was asleep in the passenger seat as he looked out toward the front window of the van. Baby Ruth looked at the road as he drove down a long, deserted and dusty highway. Two lanes in either direction and no one and nothing but an occasional lonely cactus for as far as the eye could see.

“How far?” Straton asked.

“Almost there.” Baby Ruth said.

Straton became impatient. “I am going to assume you mean we avoided any patrol or red tape.”

“We rolled right on through, boss and did you wake up? Nope, saw ya, you were sleepin’ like a baby.” He grinned. He never chills, Baby Ruth thought. Dude’s gonna jus blow out one of these days. “No patrol.” He finally answered Straton. He enjoyed letting him sweat sometimes. He was such a hard ass.

“Thank you.” Straton yawned. “I will drive from here.”

“Sure could use a break and some coffee.” Baby Ruth said and pulled the van to a stop and climbed in the back.

Straton got into the front seat. “Forgive us, the continental breakfast is not available this morning.” He screwed up his face and put the van in gear easing back on to the deserted highway. “Take care of him.” He instructed Baby Ruth, indicating Mike asleep on the floor of the van.

Chloe moaned. “I’m hungry.” She said still half sleeping.

“Soon, we will arrive soon.” Straton told her. He was curious why they chose his apprentice to accompany them, she was so young and still so many things to learn. His curiosity was not important. There was a very good reason, it was not for him to understand or question.

He didn’t want to think about what lay before them, that made his heart pound and he hated that feeling. He was trained and he knew how to handle that, always stay on target. That was all one could do when one’s enemy is everywhere. The rest would be up to those members of the Singularity who preferred protocol until that failed. Straton could rely on them for using him for what he did best, no questions, no answers. That settled with him just fine, he mused and drove down the empty highway.

* * *