I've had comments that some of my 'tough guy' writing can be a little too pared down and staccato. This is a short self-contained memory flashback, set in 1950s California, and I apologise for any references that don't make sense out of context...
Racing through the night, pushing the big Plymouth to its limits on the two-lane blacktop, with an over-eager motorcycle cop on my tail.
Lucile Lamont curled up on the back seat, screaming in agony, haemorrhaging from a botched abortion.
The banshee wail of the siren, headlight filling my rear-view mirror.
The voice in my head alternating between manic laughter and urging me faster, faster.
I clipped the verge on a tight corner, kicking up grass and gravel, slewing the big car sideways across the roadway – and was damn lucky not to roll it, for sure.
Not so lucky for the cop.
He barrelled around the turn and ploughed straight into the rear quarter. Impact sent him flying over the handlebars and into a telegraph pole – end of story.
I tore my hand up pulling the buckled metal cover away from the rear tyre, but didn’t feel a thing. That’s the up-side of my companion – no pain, ever.
While he’s around.
I got Lucy to Doctor Paul, just over the line in Orange County, the steering wheel slick with blood soaking through my ‘kerchief. He saved her life, and sewed my palm shut as a bonus. I’d already made a few calls and her absence from the studio was going to be explained away as a riding accident.
However, the Plymouth was a ready-made conviction in any jurisdiction; abattoir upholstery, crumpled bodywork, paint transfer, you name it. Luckily, Doctor Paul – real name something Polish verging on the unpronounceable – was someone people went to when they couldn’t risk a hospital admission. Rumour was he’d patched up some of Micky Cohen’s boys, plus a couple of deputies who didn’t want their off-duty exploits coming to the attention of the Sheriff’s Department.
So he made a call, and the car was taken away to be quietly crushed, figuratively speaking. The down-side being I now owed a favor to some unsmiling men in expensive suits, but at least Lionel had just sucked it up when I laid out the deal for him.
Not so, apparently, Mac.
Racing through the night, pushing the big Plymouth to its limits on the two-lane blacktop, with an over-eager motorcycle cop on my tail.
Lucile Lamont curled up on the back seat, screaming in agony, haemorrhaging from a botched abortion.
The banshee wail of the siren, headlight filling my rear-view mirror.
The voice in my head alternating between manic laughter and urging me faster, faster.
I clipped the verge on a tight corner, kicking up grass and gravel, slewing the big car sideways across the roadway – and was damn lucky not to roll it, for sure.
Not so lucky for the cop.
He barrelled around the turn and ploughed straight into the rear quarter. Impact sent him flying over the handlebars and into a telegraph pole – end of story.
I tore my hand up pulling the buckled metal cover away from the rear tyre, but didn’t feel a thing. That’s the up-side of my companion – no pain, ever.
While he’s around.
I got Lucy to Doctor Paul, just over the line in Orange County, the steering wheel slick with blood soaking through my ‘kerchief. He saved her life, and sewed my palm shut as a bonus. I’d already made a few calls and her absence from the studio was going to be explained away as a riding accident.
However, the Plymouth was a ready-made conviction in any jurisdiction; abattoir upholstery, crumpled bodywork, paint transfer, you name it. Luckily, Doctor Paul – real name something Polish verging on the unpronounceable – was someone people went to when they couldn’t risk a hospital admission. Rumour was he’d patched up some of Micky Cohen’s boys, plus a couple of deputies who didn’t want their off-duty exploits coming to the attention of the Sheriff’s Department.
So he made a call, and the car was taken away to be quietly crushed, figuratively speaking. The down-side being I now owed a favor to some unsmiling men in expensive suits, but at least Lionel had just sucked it up when I laid out the deal for him.
Not so, apparently, Mac.