Underbelly (14 page)

Such unflattering comments led to fists flying and Aravilla wound up getting pounded several times in the kidney by the officer's shoe. With blood in his urine, he'd earned an overnight stay in the jail ward. In hindsight this was less about seeing to his injuries, but a way to disappear the struggling song man.

The van made good time on the freeway as this was before the morning crush. From the 10 they segued onto the 405 North and hit a pocket of resistance past the Getty Center before dropping down through the Sepulveda Pass. The reason for the delay was a camouflaged Army Humvee that rear-ended by a civilian Hummer, a smaller H3, in the middle lane. Several service men and a woman had exited the Army vehicle and were discussing matters with a middle-aged woman in a fur coat, the driver of the Hummer. This Magrady took in as they rolled past.

The large deputy, who drove, said something to his partner and the other one snickered. He took a look back at the prisoners, a leer fading on his face. “Just relax, fellas. I can almost taste that burrito.”

“Good for you,” Magrady said.

“Careful, pops, you might want to save your strength.”
Redhead pointed a finger at him and turned back around. “You got a long day ahead of you.”

“That right?” Magrady challenged.

Aravilla made a disapproving frown at him.

Eventually the prisoners were deposited at the Van Nuys County jail facility, part of a sprawling complex that included an LAPD division and nearby courthouse. They were placed in a holding cell with other arrestees, including an atypical white, tanned, suburban-looking man in tasseled loafers and suede sport coat. He did his best to remain in a corner, seemingly trying to will himself invisible to the rest. Naturally this had the opposite result.

“The fuck, man,” a beer gut hanging, bearded individual said as he gazed mercilessly at the casually dressed inmate. “They bust you for trying to pick up a prostitute, something like that?” he demanded. No response. “What? You deaf, bitch? I got something to open up your ears.”

The object of his twisted desire tried to get smaller.

“They didn't treat Britney like this,” a Marilyn Manson copycat said to a deputy who walked by the bars, reading something on a clipboard. The pop singer had once reported to this jail for whatever infraction she'd committed that week. She'd come in a bright red wig and miniskirt as countless paparazzi snapped photos in hopes she'd do something bizarre in the continuing headline drama of her then public meltdown. Instead she just filled out her paperwork and was able to leave.

Yeah, Magrady lamented, they sure didn't treat Britney Spears like this.

Every minute that elapsed brought him no relief since he had no idea as to a time certain for release. He'd asked at one point to make a phone call but lacking money couldn't use the pay phone. Magrady considered hitting up the suburbanite for some quarters but given he hadn't said anything to defend him, he felt he didn't deserve to ask for the loan. But he got his chance after they'd been brought a lunch of grilled cheese sandwiches piled on a tray, just out of the microwave.

“Hey, my doctor says I can't let my blood sugar get too low,” the one with the stomach said to the loafer wearer. He held out his hand for the other one to hand over his food.

“Look, just let me be.”

Jelly belly jiggled his hand, waiting, entitled to receive his tribute.

Magrady orbited closer. “You're not that stupid, are you?”

He put squints on the vet. “Fuck off.”

“I've got nowhere to go,” Magrady said. It got quiet in the holding tank.

“I said step off, whiskers.”

“Now you know damn well these fine deputies like to run an orderly jail. You want to cause a ruckus, that's one more charge laid on your head. Me,” he hunched his shoulders, “I don't mind the extra days.” He figured two or three blows from those meaty fists and he'd be back in the hospital ward, but he couldn't abide a bully. “See, I like the taste of ears,” making a reference he'd go Mike Tyson on him.

Gut man took a step closer to Magrady who didn't blink nor back up. He was ready to plant his elbow in the man's Adam's apple.

Several beats, then, “My fine old lady's comin' to spring me. I don't have time for this shit.”

That earned him a round of disappointed guffaws as the potential combatants separated—which in their tight, crowded space meant several inches. The middle class man continued to unwrap his sandwich and began eating. He glanced once at Magrady, wary to know what his intercessor wanted from him.

“I didn't ask for your help and I'm damn sure not giving you anything,” he said over a mouthful.

“Sucker,” Aravilla said to Magrady, smiling thinly.

Magrady ate slowly and tried to remember various passages from Jules Verne's
20,000 Leagues Under the Sea.
It was the first book he'd picked out on his own as a kid to read from the school library. Trying to conjure up those scenes, and that thrill of those word pictures in his head at that time, gave him something to do. Something to do for a while until that got boring. At eighteen past four he was imaging how his shoes had been manufactured when a deputy called for Aravilla.

The Singing Vato stuck out a fist to Magrady. “Stay up, home.”

“You too, man,” he said, giving the other one some pound. “I'll look for you in the movies.”

“That's right.”

The cell door was unlocked and he left, flanked by the pair that had brought them there. Magrady's stomach fluttered. Like him, Aravilla hadn't made a call to let anyone know where he was and there wasn't going to be a court hearing this late in the day. And he doubted a friend had found him.

Aravilla didn't look back, but hesitated as he was led through the doorway as those questions must have occurred to him as well. Forty minutes later, Magrady was called and he too was taken through the doorway by the happiness boys. The room they stood in contained two chairs and a mop leaning against the wall. Another door, with an electronic lock, was at the far end.

“Take that off,” the red haired one said, handing Magrady a grocery bag containing his mushed clothes.

Magrady removed the overalls and put on his pants and shirt. He put a hand on his back pocket. “Where's my wallet?”

The two looked blankly at each other. “Wallet, you say,” the heavyweight replied. “We don't know nothin' about that. It must have been taken at the hospital.”

“Shitty security they got there,” his tag team buddy said, clucking his tongue.

“This ain't right.” The key to Bonilla's place was missing too. “How the hell am I supposed to get home?”

“You're a free man, sir.” The walloper moved to the security door and punched in a combination. The door clicked open a sliver and he pushed it further out. “Best get going.” His Olmec face was set like carved granite.

The other one gave Magrady a glazed look, and for the briefest of moments he wanted to smash that face, if only to get arrested and have a place to sleep tonight. No matter how uncomfortable the holding tank was and having to deal with the blowhard with the beer belly. But he knew better and walked out the door that they'd put Aravilla through less than an hour before. He was let out onto the side of the building and a passageway along a parking structure. The door closed behind him.

Fuckin' Stover. No money and no coat and it was getting cold. Magrady walked over to Van Nuys Boulevard and went south. He begged fifty cents at a gas station off a youngster riding a sweet 1200
cc
Yamaha motorcycle. At a supermarket, he was awarded two dollars for helping an aging woman with dyed bright orange hair load her church van with various boxes of out-dated, but eatable food donated to their pantry.

“You sure you don't want me to help you get a bed tonight?” she asked Magrady. “I know several shelter operators in the area.”

“That's okay, thanks. I'll be fine. I appreciate this.” He waved at her and walked off. It was nighttime and he was frigid. Hustling money was one thing, but staying at a shelter would depress him even more as to how precarious his situation was. Nearing Burbank Boulevard he came upon a funky coffee shop and entered. An open mic session was happening. A chunky young woman with hot pink highlights in her hair was humorously recounting her time chained to an old oak to prevent it being bulldozed while desperately having to pee.

Magrady warmed up and managed not to spend his money. There were numerous people in the place and when the couple left, he sat in one of their chairs and pretended the half full cup before him had been his. He also carefully stole some tip money. He knew at least once this young woman in fur boots caught him but she smiled wanly in an understanding way. There was a working pay phone near the bathroom and Magrady tried a collect call to Janis Bonilla. But the operator couldn't put it through since he only got her recording.

Back in his seat he noticed one of those canvas bag type purses on a nearby ledge. Whoever it belonged to wasn't around at the moment. Magrady zoomed in on several bills haphazardly stuffed into it. A few bucks more and he could catch a bus back to his side of town. Just two lousy dollars. He was hungry as hell and cold and uncomfortable, but wanted to get home worse. He looked around and the storyteller with the bright hair who'd been rockin' the mic earlier glanced up from the text she was editing while sitting at a table. They exchanged half smiles and she resumed her work.

But Magrady knew she'd checked off the petty thief box in her head and would be aware if he reached for the money. His taking a risk for the ducats became moot as the owner of the bag, a curvaceous mixed-race young woman in hip huggers, returned.

A little past eleven the open mic session was over, and the coffee house was closing up. He tried a collect call again to Bonilla, but again no luck. As Magrady started to leave, he noticed a color flyer sticking out from underneath a saucer with a partially eaten piece of marble cake on it. Magrady ate the cake and grinned at the image on the leaflet as he pulled it loose. The slick advertised a local gallery, the Middle Eye, which had a show up about early California. The graphic was a photo of the floating mummified head identified as Talmock.

Magrady had expected the mystic to have his lips and eyelids sewn together and spiders crawling along straggly hair like some apparition out of an old EC Comics horror eight-pager. His lips were closed and the reptilian skin drawn tight across his protruding cheekbones. But the eye sockets were open and gems of some sort had replaced the orbs. Was this why Floyd and his sister wanted the head? For the jewels? But how much could they be worth? A few thousand at most. That didn't make any sense he reasoned. If Talmock had been buried with the jewels in his eye sockets, whoever unearthed the head would have snatched them. Down at the lower left in small letters the credits included a thank you to the Nakano Family Foundation. He took the flyer with him.

Energized by the new information, Magrady went in search of another pay phone but couldn't find one that worked. He had to take a dump and did his business in an alcove beside a nail salon set on a tiny strip mall. He used some thrown away fast food wrappers to clean himself. He wasn't embarrassed. This was a necessity, and like any other bereft person, he did his best to adapt to his present conditions.

He wanted to at least reach Ventura Boulevard because he knew how to get back downtown on Line 96. For this was the Valley and even more about mobility via private car than where he normally hung. So he walked. He soldiered up into the dark and the cold, putting one foot in front of the other.

Fuck Stover.

Fuck Boo Boo and Elmore.

Fuck 'em all.

Blowing on his fists, Magrady walked on, telling himself that each step brought him closer to a bed and sleep—even if he wasn't really sure where that would be. At the bus stop his frigid fingers were lanced with pins of cold in his pockets as he stamped back and forth behind the bus bench. Finally the bus came and he paid his fare and slumped in a seat in the rear, among four other passengers. There was heat and he unfroze.

One of the other passengers was a man about Magrady's age in polyester pants, a dirty corduroy sport coat, and a Bob Marley T-shirt. He mumbled algebra formulas to himself and laughed at his answers. Exhausted, Magrady half-slept till the bus got over the hill and turned to let them out on Hollywood Boulevard to transfer to the next bus. Magrady and a woman he took to be an office cleaner given her blue khakis and work shirt under her coat, waited.

The two exchanged quick nods as the Black Flame and the Dread Knight walked up, sharing a flask. The newcomers nuzzled each other. Each had on a jacket, and the Dread Knight's cape trailed below his car coat. He offered the booze to Magrady and the other woman. She declined but Magrady had a sip. His first drink in eight months. Damn, he missed the stuff.

“Hard day, huh?” the Dread Knight asked him, slipping his cowl off to reveal a ruggedly handsome face. Along the Boulevard, some who were looking to make their break in the Industry and in between waiting tables or selling cell phones, would dress as superhero or fairytale characters and prowl about, looking to swoop in and have their picture taken with the typical gawking tourist, whose kids invariably would be the ones to point at them and exclaim their character's name. Said costumed adventurer would then hit up their unsuspecting patron for a tip for their so-called service. Thus unlike the do-gooders they pretended to be, they would depart before a security guard or cop could run them off or bust them for panhandling.