Death Walks Skid Row Read online

  Death Walks Skid Row

  Michael Mallory

  © Michael Mallory 2019

  Michael Mallory has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 2019 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 15

  EPILOGUE

  About the author

  PROLOGUE

  Sunset Boulevard,

  Los Angeles, California

  June 29, 1975

  1:13 a.m.

  The unseasonal thunderstorm that had drenched Los Angeles, which came as a surprise to just about everyone in the city (even the TV weathercasters), had made the streets dangerously wet and slick.

  There was no opposing traffic on Sunset Boulevard as the midnight-blue Jag roared through Rustic Canyon, one of the darkest, curviest, most wooded sections of street in the entirety of L.A. That was a good thing since the car was weaving erratically between the two lanes, straightening the curves wherever possible. The two men in the car, – the driver and the passenger – were very drunk, having recently staggered out of a party at a mansion in Pacific Palisades.

  “Jesus, Bone, slow down,” Mac said.

  “Wha’ for?” the driver drawled. “Nobody else out here this time o’ night.”

  “That’s no reason to kill us.”

  Bone began clucking like a chicken.

  “C’mon, man, the road’s wet … hey, look out!”

  A deer – a big one, with a sizeable rack – was suddenly silhouetted in the road in front of them. The driver made an attempt to brake, but the deer did not wait to see what happened; it leapt away into the trees.

  “Christ, that was too close,” Mac sighed. “Now you gonna slow down?”

  “Aw, where’s your sense of adventure?”

  If anything, the car picked up speed.

  Mac tried again. “Bone, think about it this way: when you drive slower, you save gas. They say it’s gonna go up to sixty cents a gallon by the end of the summer. You wanna keep havin’ to fill up every other day at sixty cents a gallon?”

  The Jag slid off the roadway onto the shoulder, doing nearly seventy. Bone wrenched it back onto the pavement.

  “Jesus, we’re gonna die!” Mac cried.

  “Oh, ye of little balls,” the driver sang.

  The two were still arguing three-quarters of a mile down Sunset, when the stopped station wagon appeared on the right shoulder. “Looks like someone’s in trouble,” Mac said.

  “Hey, wanna see how close I can get to that car?” Bone asked, grinning.

  “No, c’mon, man, don’t do it. Just slow down and … Jesus!”

  A second later Mac screamed and threw his hands up over his eyes and only opened them again when he heard the gut-busting laughter coming from the driver.

  “What the hell is wrong with you, man?” Mac screamed. “I thought you were gonna plow right into that car!”

  “I wasn’t going to hit it,” Bone insisted. “I must’ve missed it by, what, a half-inch?”

  “Christ.”

  Bone laughed again. “Man, you should have seen yourself! Thought you were going to pee your pants!”

  “I’m not sure I didn’t. Hey, is that someone walking in the road?”

  Bone saw her too. She was a young woman, maybe early twenties, wearing a peasant blouse and bell-bottoms, and holding a section of newspaper over her head as futile protection against the rain. When she turned to see the Jaguar coming toward her, she raised the paper and waived, as though to flag it down. “Wanna scare her?” he asked.

  “Oh, no, man, don’t …”

  Ignoring his friend, Bone pointed the car straight toward her and gunned it.

  The woman’s eyes widened insanely as she saw that the car was heading straight for her. She tried to run, but slipped on the wet pavement.

  Bone tried to swerve away from her at the last minute.

  He didn’t make it.

  The Jaguar’s rear wheels skidded out and the car smashed into the woman full force, plowing her under.

  The car made a complete donut before sliding to a stop, and was now sideways across Sunset Boulevard.

  “What happened?” Bone muttered.

  “What do you think happened?” Mac screamed, his voice high and shaking. “You just ran somebody over!”

  “I can’t have.”

  “Jesus, Bone!”

  “Maybe I missed her.”

  “How? How? Didn’t you feel the thump?”

  “Get out and look.”

  “Me? Why me?”

  “’Cause I’m gonna …” Bone got the driver’s door open just in time to keep from vomiting all over his expensive leather upholstery.

  “Oh god,” Mac moaned. He got out of the car and walked around it on shaky legs.

  The bleeding, woman-shaped heap was only a few yards away.

  At first he thought she might be moving, but then realized that it was only his vision that was moving, reeling from the shock and the alcohol. Cautiously, and with an unsure stomach himself, he approached the figure and turned it over.

  There was no question she was dead. Nobody could have survived the wounds to her head and face, which were crushed.

  But her eyes were still open in the rain, and staring at him meaninglessly.

  Mac’s body turned to ice and he sank down onto his knees, muttering, “Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god …”

  As soon as his legs would support him again, he got up and went back to the car. The driver was back inside and the engine was running.

  “Is she …?” Bone asked.

  “Yeah,” Mac said numbly.

  “What was she doing out here anyway?”

  “That was probably her car stopped on the shoulder back there. It must have broken down. She was probably trying to find a house, or somebody to help her. I don’t know what she was doing out here! But what are we gonna do?”

  “Get the hell out of here, that’s what.”

  “But we can’t—”

  Bone was already straightening the car on the street. The Jag was not handling particularly well, having been damaged by the impact, but it drove.

  “You’re just gonna leave her there like that?” Mac asked.

  “There’s nothing we can do for her now,” Bone said. “We have to think of ourselves. I’m sure as hell not sticking around for the damn cops to show up.”

  Mac suddenly felt as sober as he had ever been in his life. And while he could not speak for Bone on that score, he noticed that his friend’s driving had improved.

  Neither spoke for several miles until they had reached the edge of the Sunset Strip, which was filled with traffic as a result of the clubs and bars having just let out.

  Finally Bone said, “We really lucked out, you know that? Nobody saw anything. No other cars out here. No witnesses.”

  “I wouldn’t say it was luck,” Mac uttered.

  “Here’s what’s gonna happen. I’ll drop you off and then take the car home and lock it up in the garage until I can get it fixed. If anybody says anything about the damage, I’ll say I hit a deer. Only I’ll say I hit it in Laurel Canyon or someplace. I’ll drive the Lincoln for a while.”

  “Cops aren’t stupid, Bone.”

&nbs
p; “Listen to me! That is the story. That’s what you will say if anybody asks you. You stick to it and no one will ever find out. Pretty soon it will be like this never happened. You got it? You got it?”

  “Jesus, Bone …”

  “It never happened. You hear me? It never happened. Say it.”

  “It never happened.”

  The driver paused, then said, “What never happened, man?”

  Mac wanted to laugh. On some level, he needed to laugh. He tried to laugh. But he couldn’t. He just couldn’t.

  He wondered if he’d ever laugh again.

  CHAPTER 1

  Skid Row, Downtown

  Los Angeles, California

  August 19, 2005

  11:09 a.m.

  Except for being stuck in an elevator with Harve ‘Hot-Stuff’ Huffert, the David Cop-A-Feel sports reporter at her station, the last place Ramona Rios wanted to be right now was standing on a vacant lot in the heart of Skid Row. Even by L.A. standards it was hot, the hottest day of the year so far, ninety-nine degrees or better, which made this part of Downtown smell even worse. The ever-present stench of urine from the alleys and gutters mingled with the reek of old stale grease that was coming from the grungy fry joint across the street, making anyone who would be watching her report glad no one had yet invented smell-o-vision.

  Ramona squinted in the bright sunlight as she surveyed the blighted neighborhood. She understood this was part of her job. If she ever hoped to work her way up to the anchor chair, she had to do the field work. Still, she couldn’t help but notice that pert, audibly blonde Kristina Borkland was never sent anywhere but the West Side or the richer parts of the San Fernando Valley to do live reports.

  At least she had the satisfaction of knowing she wouldn’t have to return home to her cheating boyfriend Lonnie that night; she had thrown him out over the weekend.

  “Okay, Ramona, give me a sound check,” said Larry Frank, a veteran of the L.A news scene. The two were in the worst section of Downtown to cover a non-event: the press conference to announce plans for a new commercial and residential complex that promised to revitalize the area – yet again.

  Glancing down at her notes, Ramona held up her microphone and said, “Testing, one, two, three … this is Ramona Rios. I’m standing here in hellish heat on the corner of Sixth and San Pedro – the armpit of Los Angeles – waiting to enlighten you about a new scheme by rich people to vacuum up city funding, by which I mean your tax dollars.”

  Larry Frank groaned. “You know, kiddo,” he began, “one of these days you’re going to step in it up to your ankles doing that sort of thing. What if the switcher in the booth had accidentally hit the wrong button and sent you out over the airwaves saying that?”

  “He didn’t, did he?”

  “No, but—”

  Ramona flashed her perfect, dimpled smile. “Then what’s the problem?”

  “All I’m saying is you need to be a little more careful.” He put the video camera up to his eye. “We’re going live in two minutes.”

  “God, I wish I could do something about that sun,” Ramona complained, holding her notes over her eyes. “I don’t want to squint all the way through this. How about if I cheat into this shadow?” She stepped into a dark patch cast by a competing station’s news truck that was parked on the street.

  “Then you become a silhouette. Get back on mark and stop complaining. I’m not responsible for staging this event looking into the sun.”

  Ramona knew who was: Nick Cantone, the billionaire developer and city powerbroker who was the force behind ‘Phoenix Terrace’, the proposed reconstruction of this entire city block. Maybe not Cantone personally, but someone from his office. Probably the same staffer who had ordered that all the homeless be bused out of the area so none would be seen on camera for the grand press event ceremony.

  At least according to the rumor Ramona had heard.

  “A minute-thirty,” Larry said.

  Ramona was beginning to perspire, which was bad television. “Executive decision, Larry,” she said, stepping into a narrow shady patch cast by a tall tree. “If I’m in shadow, fix it.”

  “Dammit, Ramona! The point of the shot is to have the dignitaries’ platform in the background behind you!”

  “Not if I can’t open my eyes! C’mon, they made me the segment producer, so I’m producing. Film the platform on B-roll.”

  “Jesus,” Larry muttered to himself. In the thirty-one years that he had been working at KPAC, starting back in the days when all remotes were shot on 16mm film and cut by hand, he had seen dozens of reporters come and go, some good, some mediocre, some dedicated journalists, and some telegenic airheads like that Borkland bimbo. Ramona Rios definitely had the chops to be a reporter, and she was damned easy to look at, but it didn’t take a psychic to predict that her jones for taking chances was someday going to turn around and bite her in that cute little butt.

  “Fine, your call,” he sighed, adjusting the camera’s position. “Thirty seconds, by the way.”

  Through her earpiece Ramona heard the voice of Matt Stevens, the News at Eleven anchor.

  Larry flashed his free hand three times, indicating fifteen seconds, though at this point Ramona would be taking her cue from Matt’s throw to her.

  “… announcement of a major development in downtown Los Angles,” she heard him say. “Ramona Rios is on the scene. Ramona, what’s happening?”

  “Matt,” Ramona began, “up until now, this section of Downtown Los Angeles, which for the last sixty years has been known as Skid Row, has defied redevelopment efforts. But State Assemblyman Adam Henry and developer Nick Cantone are planning to put an end to that curse. Very shortly, Assemblyman Henry and Mr. Cantone, along with representatives of the city’s Community Redevelopment Agency, will be here to break ground for Phoenix Terrace, a new hundred-million dollar residential and shopping complex that they hope will be the pivot point for this long-depressed area. While some city leaders, including several on the city council and, it has been rumored, Mayor Alberto Soto himself, remain skeptical that enough people can be induced to make this area their home, Mr. Cantone has long maintained—”

  Just then the voice of Jess Kalman, the director, could be heard through her earpiece shouting, “Aw, crap, look in the background!”

  Instinctively, Ramona turned around to see what was happening. Two street men were shuffling up behind her. One was young, black, and still had definable clothing, which implied that he had not long been homeless. The other was older, probably Caucasian, though it was hard to tell through the sun-baked dirt and scraggly gray beard on his face. His tattered clothes were all a uniform leaden-brown color, dyed from the experience of living on the streets for a long time. They did not speak to each other but merely walked side by side like exhausted soldiers after a battle.

  “Don’t turn away from the camera!” Kalman was screaming. “Jesus! Larry, go somewhere else!”

  “Stay on me, Larry,” Ramona said. Then starting to walk toward the men, she continued: “It is well known that there are some ten thousand homeless people living in Skid Row, and yet these two that you see behind me are the only residents of this area that I have seen today. It makes one wonder if the rumors I’ve heard – that the homeless had been swept from the area in anticipation of this event today – can really be true.”

  “Ramona, what the hell are you doing?” Kalman shouted.

  She ignored him.

  “Ramona Rios, KPAC News at Eleven, can I speak with you gentlemen?” she asked.

  Forced to follow her lead, Larry now made the two homeless men the centerpiece of the shot. Neither, though, seemed aware that they were being photographed. The older and dirtier of the two suddenly tilted his head up and appeared to look sideways into the camera lens, but Larry was quickly able to discern that the man was not really seeing him. The guy had a dead left eye which turned out too far to the side to be functional.

  “Have you been asked to leave the area?” Ramona a
sked them. Neither replied. “Have your friends been evacuated out?”

  “Friends?” the one with the crooked eye shouted. Then he began to laugh.

  Turning back to the camera, her head shaking sadly, Ramona said, “Matt, this area is the home to these two gentlemen and countless others like them. The question that remains unanswered is not so much whether more affluent people are going to respond to the gentrification of Skid Row, but what is going to happen to this area’s current residents, like these two, once the Phoenix Terrace is opened for business? Where are they going to go? Live from Skid Row, this is Ramona Rios. Matt, back to you in the studio.”

  “Aw, Christ, camera one,” Kalman’s voice commanded through the earpieces.

  Once she had received the weak “Clear” from Jess, Ramona took down her microphone and walked to the cameraman. “Do you think ‘depressed’ was the right word to describe this place?” she asked. “Should I have said ‘blighted’?”

  “Hey, don’t ask me, you’re the segment producer,” Larry Frank replied, with a shrug. What he was thinking was: Been nice working with you, kiddo.

  Two police officers now appeared to shoo away the homeless men as Assemblyman Adam Henry looked on in concern. At the platform, three men in suits and a smartly dressed woman began to ascend the small step unit to take their seats on the dais.

  A limo pulled up on the street and Ramona saw Nick Cantone step out. His gleaming hair, the color of a newly-minted quarter, made him one of the easiest ‘spots’ in the city. He was followed by Assemblyman Adam Henry, who was tanned, trim, and looked every inch the action hero he had played on television and in film before turning to politics. As they made their way to the platform, which was now surrounded by a half-dozen LAPD officers, a young, rabbit-like technician did a sound check on a microphone at the podium in the middle of the dais. Other news crews, both television and radio, started to gather around.

  “Okay, Larry,” Ramona said, dabbing at her sweating face with a Kleenex, “let’s get this over with.”

  Yep, you’re going places, kiddo, Larry Frank thought as he followed her over to the ceremony platform. Starting this afternoon.