Cruel Vintage Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have control over and does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites, or their content, not owned by the publisher. Trademarks used herein are incidental and used specifically in a descriptive capacity.

  Cover design by Brandi Doane-McCann

  Formatting and interior design by Billington Media

  Copyright © 2020 Huston Michaels

  All rights reserved.

  Print edition ISBN 978-0-9973024-7-9

  e-Book edition ISBN 978-0-9973024-6-2

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2020904492

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For Julie

  [I]t is the wine that leads me on…

  It even tempts [me] to blurt out stories never told.

  Homer

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Day 1

  Day 2

  Day 3

  Day 4

  Day 5

  Day 6

  Day 7

  Day 8

  Day 9

  Day 10

  Day 11

  Day 12

  Day 13

  Day 14

  Day 15

  Day 16

  Day 17

  Day 18

  Day 19

  Day 20

  Day 21

  Day 22

  Day 23

  Day 24

  Day 25

  Day 26

  Last Day

  DAY 1

  Monday Six weeks ago

  The heel of the heavy boot tapped out a soft, staccato beat on the parking lot asphalt as the rider took another hit off the yomogi-laced joint. The weed helped keep the anticipation in check, the yomogi kept the senses sharp.

  It was the perfect combination for the day of a kill, especially when the target controlled the timing. For the rider, it was now a simple waiting game.

  The morning crept toward noon. The riding leathers were hot, and twice the rider moved to find better shade under the lollipop-trimmed trees in the landscaped strip between the sidewalk and the lot.

  Still no sign of the target, and still the heel kept time.

  For the hundredth time the rider caressed the squat, cylindrical canister tucked inside the black leather jacket and considered the irony of the day. Not a subtle dose, as irony goes, but certainly appropriate given the target’s history.

  The rider would have preferred a blade, but not today. The Lord had considered close combat too much of a risk.

  “The man is dangerous,” the Lord had warned. “Were he Japanese, he would be Bushi. You must not lose.”

  Had anyone else implied the weakness, the rider would have taken their head. The rider had never lost. The rider would not lose today. The beauty of the falling sun was eternal.

  The heel continued its unconscious countdown to the target’s death.

  The cell phone in the rider’s inside pocket buzzed, then connected to the Bluetooth ear piece.

  “He’s on the move,” a voice said.

  “Hai. Arigato,” the rider acknowledged and disconnected.

  Twenty minutes later a silver Bentley Continental rolled down Wilshire Boulevard from the west and pulled to a stop at the curb in front of the showroom. The target got out of the passenger side, bent over for a moment to talk to the driver, then turned and headed for the door as the Bentley pulled away.

  A beautiful, smiling woman in a Ferrari-red dress stepped outside and held the door open in welcome. Even from the rider’s vantage point there was no hint in the target’s movements that his lower left leg was a prosthesis.

  From the Wilshire side, the showroom was little more than a storefront and a sign. The rider knew that vehicle access was from the one way, west-to-east street one block south. Relocation to the rear was necessary. The rider stubbed out the joint, started the bike and dropped the helmet’s tinted visor. The heel stilled at last as the toe of the boot found the gear shift lever.

  The delivery took longer than anticipated. The joint was briefly re-lit.

  The rider heard the new Ferrari before it rolled into view. Its top was down.

  The rider prepared while the target made a left and went to the light at Wilshire.

  To the rider’s surprise, the target stayed in the through lane instead of entering the left turn stacking lane.

  He’s not going back to the office, the rider realized, quickly evaluating the new variables.

  When the light changed the Ferrari crossed Wilshire and headed north. The rider timed the light perfectly and was the last vehicle to get through on green, settling into early afternoon traffic two cars back and one lane over.

  The target went east on Santa Monica Boulevard to La Cienega, made a left, went to Sunset and turned east again.

  The heel began to bounce in the air below the peg.

  Where the hell is he going?

  When the Ferrari turned left onto Crescent Heights, the rider smiled behind the visor. There was no need to follow now.

  Crescent Heights is four lanes before becoming Laurel Canyon Road. The rider hit the throttle hard, passed the beautiful red sports car and started the winding climb to Mulholland Drive.

  At the summit the rider turned right at the light, went east a couple hundred yards to a point beyond Woodrow Wilson Drive, made a u-turn and waited at the curb.

  It wasn’t long before the Ferrari rolled up to the light at Laurel Canyon and Mulholland, its left turn signal blinking.

  “Ima, watashi wa anata o koroshimasu,” the rider said aloud and started the slow roll back down toward Laurel Canyon. Now, I will kill you.

  “Chui shite,” the Lord whispered. Use caution.

  It was a weekday, outside normal sightseeing hours, and all the northbound uphill traffic on Laurel Canyon except the Ferrari continued on down to The Valley on the other side.

  Again, the rider’s timing was perfect, goosing the powerful bike just as the westbound light turned red, dodging a car making a late left turn and speeding after the accelerating Ferrari. When the gap closed to about two hundred feet the rider could hear the unmistakable Italian aria of the car’s exhaust as the target began to push the car.

  At the top of the first steep climb there was a hard left. The rider focused on the Ferrari, oblivious to the spectacular views.

  From the first turn and lookout, Mulholland rides the shoulders and crest of the hills, with no cross streets or houses at grade until Bowmont.

  It now depended on oncoming traffic and how hard the target was willing to drive his new toy.

  The opportunity came after the next overlook.

  The rider saw one eastbound car approaching, gauged the speed and distance, and rolled hard on the throttle. The powerful engine screamed as the bike started to close on the Ferrari.

  Just as the oncoming car passed by, the road straightened. The rider checked the rearview mirror. No following traffic.

  The motorcycle leapt forward, quickly overtaking the Ferrari. As the rider leaned into the left lane the target looked in his rearview mirror, straight at the rider’s visor.

  The rider slowed alongside the Ferrari and shouted, “Utsukushi kuruma!” Beautiful car.

  “What?” the target yelled back, glancing from the road to the rider and back.

  The rider reached into the riding jacket and pulled out the canister.

/>   “Okurimono!” the rider shouted. A gift.

  The rider lobbed the canister just above and in front of the target’s head. It hit the passenger seat back and bounced into the footwell.

  “Hey!” the target shouted, lifting off the gas as the rider rolled on the throttle and rapidly pulled away.

  In the rearview mirror the rider could see the target trying to steer the car with one hand while he leaned over and groped for the canister with the other.

  When the gap was about fifty feet, the rider pushed the bike’s horn button.

  The passenger compartment of the Ferrari instantly erupted into a ball of flame. The fiercely burning car careened back and forth across the road twice before slamming nose-first into the embankment on the uphill side.

  Just before the intersection of Mulholland and Coldwater Canyon the rider pulled to the right shoulder and stopped as a fire truck and ambulance screamed by, heading for the plume of black smoke now rising rapidly into the sky to the east.

  The rider waited for the fire truck to get some distance away before swinging a u-turn and heading east.

  Time to confirm the kill.

  “You served me well,” the Lord said to the rider.

  “Arigatou gozaimasu, Shukun,” the rider said inside the helmet. Thank you, my Lord.

  “Now you will seek our common enemy.”

  The rider’s pulse quickened. “His presence is strong. He is near.”

  “Your tengu will guide you.”

  The rider pulled to the shoulder not far from the police car blocking the road. The fire had burned fiercely and the rider saw nothing that hinted that the target had survived. Pulling the cell phone from the jacket pocket, the rider surreptitiously took two pictures and messaged them to the number that had called earlier. ‘It’s done’ was the caption.

  Pleased, the rider again swung around and headed west. In a way, though, it seemed like such a shame that the target had waited almost a year for a $400K car, then died in a crash the first time he drove it.

  DAY 2

  Tuesday Week 1

  The last time Ben Kaye had walked into the West Bureau Detectives squad room he’d intended to sign his separation papers and clean out his desk. Then Captain Thompson had tempted him with a call for help from an old colleague, convincing him to instead take a leave of absence.

  Kaye had gone to Colorado, stepping into the strangest case he’d ever worked.

  A case that some nights still kept him awake, wondering.

  The Squad had changed. Many desks were empty and there wasn’t another detective to be seen. Kaye hung the Big Boar MC jacket, the twin, double-tusked boar always watching, over the end of the cubicle panel and took stock.

  A phone atop a desk calendar pad and not much else. He pulled open the top drawer and found the same motley assortment of pens, pencils, push pins, paper clips and pads of paper that had been there when he left. His cork board was gone, as was the radio charger he habitually kept tucked into one corner of the space. He could find replacements.

  The door to Thompson’s office and the blinds covering the glass were both closed.

  Kaye knew his Captain was expecting him.

  He knocked.

  “Come,” Thompson’s familiar voice boomed through the door.

  Kaye entered. Thompson was a large, lumbering man, much taller than Kaye and nearly as heavy. He was on the phone. He put one hand over the mouthpiece and said, “Sit” before removing the hand and saying, “Yes, sir, I understand. We’re doing the best we can with the available resources.”

  The Captain listened.

  “Yes, sir,” he said again after a moment. “We’ll do our best.”

  Thompson hung up, stared venomously at the phone and muttered, “Go fuck yourself,” before looking up at Kaye and smiling.

  “Hi,” he said with forced joviality. “Sorry you had to hear that.”

  “That’s okay. I’ve heard it before.”

  “Thanks. But, seriously, welcome back Detective. You are back, right? You haven’t changed your mind since you called?”

  “I’m back,” Kaye acknowledged. “Never thought I’d hear myself say that, but, yeah, I’m back.”

  “Thank God,” Thompson said, then raised his eyebrows. “Paperwork?”

  “Took care of it downtown yesterday.”

  “Excellent. I can sure use you.”

  “I see you’re down a few bodies.”

  “A few? I’ve lost over a hundred years of combined detective experience in the last month, and the department is down hundreds of officers.”

  “What happened?”

  “The plague happened.”

  “I thought the plague didn’t make it to L.A.”

  “Let me rephrase,” Thompson said. “The panic over the plague happened. People quit.”

  “Hire them back.”

  Thompson made a face and grunted in disgust.

  “I wish,” he said. “But the brain trust, and I use the term loosely, downtown is dragging their feet on that.”

  “Why?”

  “The official word is that everyone that quit demonstrated a lack of commitment to the Department and the community, and doesn’t deserve to wear the badge.”

  “In the meantime,” Kaye said, “you’re too short-handed to handle the load.”

  “Hadn’t really been a problem until last week,” Thompson said. “Things were real quiet after the panic subsided, but now the bad guys are getting back up to speed and we’re getting behind. Which is why I’m glad to see you and won’t ask why you’re back.”

  “I’m not sure I know why I’m back,” Kaye admitted.

  “Then we’ll just go with it. And there is an upside to my manpower shortage, at least for you.”

  “What would that be?” Kaye asked.

  “I don’t have a partner for you.”

  “I’m good with that.”

  “I knew you would be.”

  “Where do I start?”

  “All the major cases have been going downtown because of the manpower situation. I didn’t know if you’d be ready to go today, or not, so I didn’t rock the boat. I’ll call down and see if there’s a case or two they want to kick back. Otherwise, you’re up for whatever comes in next.”

  “That works for me, “ Kaye said, getting up to leave. “Thanks, Captain.”

  Kaye was twisting the door knob when Thompson said, “Oh, hey, there is something you can do for me to get you started.”

  “What’s that?” Kaye said, turning around.

  Thompson was rummaging through the piles of paper on his desk and came up with a small sheaf of reports with a note clipped to the top sheet.

  “Call this guy and find out what his deal is.”

  Kaye took the papers and looked at the note. It was only a name and phone number.

  “Who’s Mark Edler?” he asked.

  “He’s a firefighter at a station up on Mulholland,” Thompson said. “He’s been pestering me since about the time you went to Colorado.”

  “About what?”

  “Some guy crashed his brand new Ferrari and died. Edler insists it wasn’t an accident and wants an investigation.”

  “Based on…?”

  “I don’t know. He’s not an arson guy. In fact, I think he’s still a Probie. He just happened to respond to the call.”

  “What did LAFD and our guys find?”

  “Those are the reports,” Thompson said. “Official finding all around was accidental death due to a motor vehicle crash. But this kid is making me crazy. He calls at least twice a week.”

  “Think he’s crazy?” Kaye asked. “You know, a conspiracy nut or something?”

  “I don’t know. If he wasn’t LAFD…” Thompson shrugged.

  Kaye looked at the note again.

  “Got it. I’ll give him a call.”

  It took Kaye all of three minutes to settle back in at his old desk. That included finding a radio charger at one vacant desk and reclaiming a cork b
oard from another.

  He spent another ten minutes making the rounds, catching up with the other officers and staff in the Bureau and letting them know he was back. He was stunned by how deserted the place was for a weekday during business hours.

  On the way back to his desk he turned a corner and almost ran over Patty Phillips, his favorite Police Assistant.

  “Detective Kaye!” she shrieked, then hugged him. “I heard you were here. I was just coming to look for you. Are you back?”

  “I’m back.”

  She beamed. “That’s good news. We can sure use your help.”

  “I see that,” Kaye said. “What happened? The Captain was pretty vague.”

  “Cops just gave up,” Patty said. “It was crazy. It was anarchy. We couldn’t keep up, not even close. On one shift when things were the worst, two patrol officers were beaten to death by mobs and there wasn’t anybody to send to help them.”

  “Wow,” Kaye said solemnly. “I had no idea.”

  “Yeah. Within days of that happening officers resigned in droves. The job is dangerous enough already and the odds just got so bad, well, it just wasn’t worth it to them. They chose their families.”

  “Can’t blame them for that,” Kaye said. “Thompson said they aren’t hiring people back.”

  “That’s right,” Patty said. “Officially they’re saying it’s because a lack of commitment or something, but unofficially I hear that the Police Commission wants to leverage this situation to clean out and rebuild the Department.”

  “Interesting,” Kaye said. “Is your family okay?”

  “Yes, everybody’s fine, thank you.”

  “But you stayed.”

  “I did.”

  “Good for you,” Kaye said, then added, “I guess.”

  She smiled.

  “You know,” Kaye went on, “you could probably move to patrol right now just by asking. You might need to do Law Week and pass the self-defense test, but you’d have no trouble with that.”

  Kaye had long tried to convince Patty to apply for a sworn officer position. She was smart, capable, and had great investigative instincts.