Liam
The Los Angeles sun beat down mercilessly as I cruised down the freeway, the roar of the engine a welcome contrast to the sterile silence of my usual luxury cars. Today, I opted for my most inconspicuous vehicle – a Toyota Prius, a chameleon in a city obsessed with ostentatious displays. Every twist and turn of the familiar route felt fresh, a forgotten thrill from a time before I got accustomed to chauffeurs and sitting in back seats.
Pulling into the dingy parking lot behind the bar. An establishment, nestled in a forgotten corner of downtown LA, was as unassuming as my ride.
I took a deep breath, the stale air thick with the promise of something illicit.
My attire – a navy blue shirt, jeans, and a baseball cap – was another layer of disguise, a shield against unwanted recognition.
Stepping inside, the dim lighting and rhythmic pulse of blues music offered a cool escape from the heat. I scanned the room, my gaze landing on a lone figure hunched over a laptop on a corner booth caught my eye – Coyote.
His shock of curly black hair, usually pulled back in a bun, seemed to defy gravity today. His attire, a black leather jacket perpetually clinging to his lean frame, screamed rockstar more than private investigator.
He was a man perpetually on the cusp of thirty, the glint of his gray eyes the only hint of his brilliance beneath the rockstar facade. A ghost of a smile played on his lips as he spotted me, a wave followed by a conspiratorial gesture towards his seat.
"Good day, boss," he greeted, his voice a low rumble that belied his youthful appearance.
"Coyote," I replied, the name tasting unfamiliar on my tongue after a period of enforced distance. "Good to see you."
He gestured towards a glass already filled with what I assumed was Whisky. I shook my head, the weight of the day already a dull ache in my stomach.
"No time for pleasantries, I presume?" he said, his voice laced with a knowing amusement.
"Straight to the point," I confirmed.
A heavy manila folder materialized on the table with a soft thud. "This is everything I could dig up on Mr. Mason," he explained, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
My stomach clenched. This was it. The moment of truth.
Hesitation flickered in my gut, but curiosity, a sharp and insistent thing, won out. I flipped open the folder, the stark black and white documents staring back at me like an accusation. The contents were a meticulously documented nightmare, a tapestry woven from lies, manipulation, and a darkness I couldn't even begin to fathom.
Coyote took a swig of his drink, his gaze steady. "It is much worse than you could possibly imagine, sir. He's got his hands in all sorts of nasty things. Tax evasion, money laundering, the usual suspects." He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. "But the most shocking… the sexual assaults, the rapes… all documented right here."
"He's a dirty bastard, that much I knew," I muttered, my voice tight. "But this is very bad?"
It was worse, far worse than the whispers and rumors that had always swirled around Elliott. This… this was Harvey Weinstein on steroids, a web of abuse that stretched back years, leaving shattered lives in its wake.
Disgust, a cold and metallic taste, flooded my mouth. How could a man like this have gotten away with it for so long? How many lives had he ruined in the shadows?
Coyote cleared his throat, the sharp sound cutting through my mounting revulsion. "Here comes the hard part," he announced.
I bristled, ready to offer a blank check to silence whatever financial hurdle he might throw my way.
"Don't worry about the money, Coyote," I interrupted, my voice clipped. "You know I'm good for it."
He met my gaze with an unreadable expression. "I wish that was the hard part, sir," he said, his voice heavy. "But it's not."
A sliver of unease wormed its way into my chest. This wasn't the usual back-and-forth of our transactions.
"Then tell me," I pressed, the words tight in my throat.
What he said next hit me like a physical blow. "Your late father," he began, his voice barely a whisper, "is implicated in some of these atrocities committed by Mr. Mason."
The world seemed to tilt on its axis. My father was a lot of things, for crying out loud he was no Saint, but being part of Elliott's cruelty shocked me. The words felt like a foreign language, refusing to form any coherent meaning.
"What are you saying?" I rasped, the question a desperate plea for a different answer.
"I'm saying," Coyote continued, his voice devoid of emotion, "that your father knew what Mr. Mason was doing and in some cases… he covered it up or partook in it. It's all there, sir."
The folder in my hand felt like a live grenade, the weight of its contents threatening to crush me. I reached for the untouched glass of whiskey Coyote offered me earlier, the amber liquid a desperate attempt to numb the growing ache in my chest.
"God," I choked out, the word a ragged prayer into the oppressive silence. "How do I tell my mother about all this?"
*************
Richard
That afternoon, I arrived in front of the apartment complex, in a patrol car, with two of my guys, both police officers.
It was the apartment that Karen had hired me to chase the inhabitants away so her father could renovate the building and increase the rent.
My crew consisted of two fellow policemen; Byron and Axle. And three thugs; Skeeter, Max and Floyd.
Everyone had folded under our… persuasion. Broken windows, slashed tires, a strategically placed dead fish in the air vent – the usual repertoire.
Except for this one guy, a mountain of a Black dude named Tyrone who wouldn't budge. He shrugged off our intimidation tactics like a fly on a windshield.
I decided to do the job today with Byron and Axle.
We waited in the patrol car and a tall, dark, broad-shouldered man with dreadlocks, emerged from the building just then. Surprise flickered across his face at the sight of us, but he held his ground.
"Afternoon, sir," I greeted, my voice smooth as butter. "Mind if we ask you a few questions?"
He eyed us cautiously. "What's this about, officer?"
"Just standard procedure," I said, flashing him a smile that didn't reach my eyes. "May I see some ID?"
He complied, his name on his ID matching the one Karen had provided: Tyrone Jones. He seemed tense, but not overly worried. This guy had some guts, I'd give him that.
"What's in the backpack?" I asked, gesturing to the worn leather bag slung over his shoulder.
"Nothing important, officer," he replied, his voice steady.
"Can I search it to be certain? You look innocent, but you never know these things" I joked.
He hesitated for a beat, then nodded reluctantly. This was it. Byron and Axle, now playing the part of concerned officers, flanked him. The search was a well-rehearsed pantomime, our movements practiced, tense. Suddenly, with a flourish, Byron "discovered" a plastic baggie tucked in a side pocket. "Fentanyl and meth," he declared, his voice thick with mock outrage.
Tyrone's face paled. "Drugs? Officer, that's not mine! You gotta believe me!"
I slapped on the cuffs, relishing the performance. "There's no misunderstanding, sir. We found these in your backpack. You're under arrest."
I ignored his pleas, the act well-rehearsed. "You have the right to remain silent…" I began, reciting the Miranda rights I was supposed to uphold, but had long since twisted to serve my own ends.
I shoved him into the back of the police car as he pleaded, saying this arrest would ruin his life and career and that he had a mother who depended on him financially.
Halfway to the station, the charade ended. Pulling over to the side of the road, I yanked him out and uncuffed him. "Listen up," I growled, the cop facade melting away. "Consider this your lucky day. Your mama gets a pass. But you get out of here now. Pack your stuff, and don't come back. This backpack," I brandished the plastic baggie, "stays with us. One wrong move, and you're singing soprano at Central Booking."
Terror choked his voice as he rasped a promise to disappear. Watching him sprint back to the apartment complex, I felt a pang of guilt, quickly overshadowed by the promise of a hefty paycheck.
Two of my colleagues started laughing like hyenas immediately when they saw that Tyrone was far away.
Slipping behind the wheel, I dialed Karen's number.
She picked up, and I said, "It's done. You can do whatever you want with that property from tomorrow."
Karen chuckled on the other end. "I knew you wouldn't let me down. I'll make the rest of the payment immediately."
Just as I was about to hang up, her voice turned sharp. "And keep an eye on your girlfriend, Richard. I saw her getting chummy with Liam today. I don't like that one bit," she said and hung up before I could respond.
The image of Vanessa and Liam, frolicking with each other, flashed in my mind. Was Karen right? Was my girl playing a double game? The thought sent a possessive anger simmering beneath the surface. The thought sent a fresh wave of anger crashing through me, possessive and ugly.