Saturday, December 27, 2008


The Santa Anas are quiet...for let's start again...

We’re back in the hood. Walking down the street to the liquor store. Everything’s got me fucked up in the head. He’s talking, but I’m not really paying attention. My radar’s not up, so I don’t see the red Bronco cruising up behind us. The homies in front of the store do, and rabbit. B.D. sees them and turns just in time to see guns coming out the windows of the Bronco. Knocks me to the sidewalk as the gunfire erupts. Broken glass from the liquor store’s windows rains all over me. The neon sign shoots fireworks as it’s blown to bits. I roll to one side. Got the gat out. Get off a couple of rounds before they squeal around the corner. That’s when I see B.D. He’s down on his stomach. Not moving. I get to him as quick as I can. Turn him over. Gaping wounds in his chest. He asks me to take care of his little girls with his dying breath. Slumps in my arms. Motherfucker died saving my life. I hear sirens. Can’t be found there. I run.

I’m hot-cold again. Only way those fucking slobs could know where we’d be was if the Rev told’em. Either he set us up, or he’s slippin’ big time. Either way, it’s time for us to get things square. I head to the dope house he runs.

I’m creepin’ through the basement when I hear voices. Hide behind some boxes. Four guys in black clothes and ski masks drag the Rev down the stairs into the basement lab. I hear one of them tell the Rev…

“He knew you were dickin' think he's gonna let you double dick'm? You lyin' sack of shit?”

The only one the Rev said “double-dick” to was me. The only person I told was my Captain. I know who the middle man is between the pharmaceutical company and the Rev. And I know I’m fucked. They put a minor beating on the Rev and leave with the boxes that have the Bibles stuffed with money. I watch out a window as they load the boxes into a van. I hear one of them say…

“God, I love fuckin’ with niggers.”

I’m pretty sure that the Rev shit his pants when I pulled him up by the huge gold chain around his neck. I tell him it’s time for confession. I’m able to persuade him it’s the right thing to do. He spills his guts like a hooker at her first confessional. Tells me everything. The whole set up. Then he tells me about the guys that just fucked him up. A group of the Deputies that work for the Captain. The most racist motherfuckers you’ll ever meet. The lead one, the “…I love fuckin’ with niggers…”, thinks Hitler and the KKK are too liberal. I let the Rev know that if he tells anybody about our little talk, I’ll front him off to every Crip, and Blood in his group. They ain’t gonna like him working with a cop. They’ll kill him. He knows it. He thinks I’ll leave now without beating him half to death…he’s wrong.

No time to think, but I have to. Shawna is waiting for me. She made a special dinner. The girls are at my folks. I don’t think the Captain knows that I’m on to him. Yet. Got to cover my ass somehow. Give myself some leverage. I stop at a store. Get some paper, an envelope and some stamps. Write down the basics of what the Rev told me. What the Captain is up to. How I’ve been working for him. I leave out the Bloods I’ve killed. Not going to put that on paper. Address it to my Dad. Mail it. Call him. I tell him there’s a package coming from me. Tell him not to open it. I’ll explain later, but…if I don’t call him tomorrow at this time, he’s to open it, make a copy, and send it to the LA Times. He doesn’t ask any questions, except if I’m OK. I lie.

Get to my apartment. That’s when I realize I’m covered in blood. B.D.’s blood. Can’t let Shawna see me like this. Go up the fire escape. Tear my clothes off in the bathroom. Go out to change. That’s when they jump me.

Fuck. Time for more pain pills.
The doctors tell me that the nerve damage, especially the pain it brings, is amplified by my PTSD. All I know is, writing this shit down is killing me.

There’s four of them. They’re on me before I can blink. Cuff me to a chair. The Captain comes in. He looks pretty happy. Cheshire grin. Thanks me for helping him. Lot’s more money for him now. I quote the exact dollar amount. He thinks I’m guessing. I tell him about being at the Rev’s when his boys were there. They tell him I’m full of it. I prove it by knowing exactly how many boxes of Bibles they took, and the exact dollar amount. He tells me that information won’t help me now. I lie. I tell him I’ve written a report every night. Mailed it to a PO Box. I call the place every day. The day I don’t make that call, the contents of the PO Box get sent to the Times, and the local TV news stations. His boys think I’m bluffing. I can tell he’s not so sure. He pulls a tape player from his pocket. Hits play. It’s my voice…copping to killing those Bloods.

“We seem to be at an impasse...any suggestions?”

“Go fuck yourself.”
“Anatomically impossible I'm afraid...'ve been wanting to join the rank and file...there's an academy class starting next week...I'll make the arrangements...I do hope you've been keeping in shape, Jay...I hear they do a lot of running...Give him something to remember me...”

He leaves. They drag me and the chair in the bathroom. Hold me down. Prop my leg on the bath tub. Push down on it. I hear something pop, and it feels like a railroad spike is being driven through my knee. They leave me like that. I don’t scream until they’re gone. Then I cry like a third grade girl. Someone comes running in. I figure they’re back to finish me off. It’s Shawna. She heard me.

The ride to my real home is quiet. She doesn’t say much after I tell her I’m an undercover cop, separated, with two little girls. Not what she expected. I figure it’s over for us. She tries to help me to my door, but I push her away. Go inside and slam the door on her. Call my folks. Tell them to bring the girls home. Drag my leg to the fridge. Patron on ice. I start to get fucked up while I’m waiting.

The Santa Anas are back...with a vengeance...and that Patron I just wrote about is soundin' mighty good...gotta break for now...


Anonymous said...

I'm so into it. Looking forward to the next.

abaddon911 said...

this is good material! I predict some nasty payback for B.D.

Christopher Blake said...

Well see, won't we...

abaddon911 said...

yes we will!


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Christopher Blake is a loving husband...devoted father...minister...crippled more than a little rough around the edges...