Page 2

CHAPTER 2

Max

T he next day, I fumble with my keys as I hurry out of my apartment, my school backpack filled to capacity. I slam the door behind me and shove the key into the lock when something hits my foot.

“Dammit,” I mutter, snatching up the ten-year-old Toyota Prius key fob from the ground. Much like the car, the fob has seen better days. “Great, how much will this cost to replace?” The remote entry key has broken at the base, and I can’t return it to the overly filled keychain.

Shoving the key fob into my front pocket, I take a deep breath to calm myself down. It isn’t necessary to rush; I can save time by eating some fast food on the way to work tonight—Taco Caliente it is then. After locking the deadbolt, I readjust my heavy pack of schoolbooks I’ll be studying tonight on my break at work.

My stomach growls as I hurry down the outdoor stairwell to street level, where I’ve spent more than enough hours of my life hunting for a free parking space. Lucky for me, yesterday I found one half a block away—a Christmas miracle in July. Once I reach my car, I toss my heavy pack into the passenger seat along with my satchel and slide in behind the wheel. The satchel was a gift from my Abuela when I graduated from high school, and it’s gone everywhere with me since then.

I wrinkle my nose. After the car has sat baking in the sun for hours, the overpowering stench of stale cigarettes and cat pee accosts me. The previous owner must have been fun to be around, I think.

“This isn’t working.” I flick the three pine-scented air fresheners hanging from the rearview mirror. You’d think after getting my first job as a museum curator, I’d be able to afford an upgrade, but try telling that to my student loans and over-inflated apartment rent. With a shrug, I turn on the car and look at the clock. Ugh. The 110 has become a parking lot twenty minutes ago, but the pull of Taco Caliente is too great. The stomach wants what the stomach wants. Sweet Abuela would be so ashamed if she knew how many times I ate there a week… God rest her soul.

Western Avenue is exactly how it is every evening: bumper-to-bumper. Inching forward, I begin muttering under my breath. “Mona Lisa, Leonardo da Vinci, 1503. The Starry Night, Vincent van Gogh, 1889. The Scream, Edvard Munch, 1893. The Kiss, Gustav Klimt, 1907. The Girl with a Pearl Earring, Johannes Vermeer, 1665.” I blink at the red light looking down on me. Shit. I’m missing an important painting from the 14th Century. “Dammit, I’m never going to get them all by tomorrow morning.” I sigh and stare at my backpack, trying to remember if the right textbook is in there.

The light turns green, and I turn left into the Taco Caliente lot and park behind a van. I reach inside my satchel for my wallet and finger through what cash I have left. Five, six, seven—yes, enough. Barely, but enough.

The car’s air conditioner has done a great job blowing mildly cooled air during my drive, but my brow is wet with perspiration. I readjust the rearview mirror to get a better look at myself. Fishing out a tissue from the center console, I dab myself dry. I might be twenty-eight, but I still break out if I’m not careful. “Better.”

I smile at my reflection for a split second until I see I haven’t actually remembered to wash my hair when I took a shower. Being a college student again while working full-time has really digressed my adulthood. Palming my thick mop of dark hair into place, I shrug. “I guess if this is the worst that happens to me today, I’ll be just fine.” Grabbing my satchel, I get out of the car and lock the door before hurrying into Taco Caliente. I never consider myself an overly sensitive person, but I have every intention of eating my feelings tonight.

After ordering off the value menu and utilizing the last of my cash, I haul it back to a booth in the rear of the restaurant. The nachos are piled high and covered in melted pepper jack cheese, decent amounts of ground beef, and sour cream—if I eat them fast enough, the chips might not even get soggy. After tearing open and emptying five hot sauce packets on top, I pop a chip into my mouth. The chip has the perfect amount of crunch, the meat salty and flavorful, and even the sour cream is still cold and tangy, but there’s something missing. Damn. I thought I was content to eat alone at this point. Forcing myself to chew and swallow, I wash it down with a swig of cola. Ah, the first swallow always burns a bit going down. It’s nice and takes the edge off the loneliness.

“Is anyone sitting here?” a man asks as he walks up carrying a tray of food.

I look around at all the empty seats the cute white guy with precious dimples and curly thick hair could have chosen and smile. “Nope.” He is clearly not dressed for a fast-food restaurant, wearing a nice buttoned-up dress shirt and stylish black pants. Those Italian leather shoes aren’t made for stability on the grease-slicked tile floor at Taco Caliente, that’s for sure. His top button is undone, but there’s a tie no doubt lying in the front seat of his car.

He sits down and squares up on the meal before him. “I think my eyes were bigger than my stomach.” Despite his large hands, he has to double-fist the burrito to handle the girth.

I laugh. “People don’t usually say that until they’ve tried to eat it all and failed.”

He nods. “You’ve got me there.” Unwrapping the burrito, he shrugs his shoulders. “Here goes nothing.” The flour tortilla is barely able to contain the bursting mess of fillings—lettuce, pico, taco seasoned ground beef, cheese, and sour cream. The number eleven, my second favorite.

As he moves the burrito around in his hand, trying to figure out the best way to eat the massive thing, I can’t help but stare. The tortilla is starting to tear, and I can see the taco meat already oozing out between his fingers. Either this guy has never eaten here or doesn’t care about his clothes. I recoil and scrunch my nose when I see the size of this guy’s monstrous bite—rookie mistake. As he closes his jaw, the pressure sends hot grease erupting from the tortilla. Ground meat plops to the tray below while taco juice squirts onto both of his cheeks and now drips from his chin onto his neatly pressed dress shirt.

“Shit,” he says around the mouthful.

I hand him a fistful of napkins. “Don’t feel bad… we’ve all made that mistake.”

The man wipes his chin and cheeks clean and blots at the now darkening stain on his blue shirt. “It’s that obvious?”

I laugh. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to laugh, but yeah… it’s obvious.”

He tosses the burrito down on the tray and wipes his hands clean. “Clearly this isn’t how I thought my evening would start. ”

I nod. “Trust me, I know how that goes. I’m Max, by the way.”

“I’m Ben.” He smiles.

There is still a tiny bit of sour cream on his bottom lip. I grab up the remaining clean napkins. “You’ve got some… right there.” I point to my own lip and smile. “Here.” I go to hand Ben the napkins, but knock my bag off the table instead. My loose change, driver’s license, wallet, receipts, and a school ID slide across the floor between us. “Shit.”

“Let me get that for you.” Ben gets up and begins picking up everything that has slid past my table.

I shove everything I can back into the satchel and hold out my hand for the rest of it. Ben passes it to me but stops, his head cocked to the side. “Maximo Ulysses Salgado? Now that’s a mouthful.” He arches his eyebrows.

I laugh and take the license from him and shove it back into my wallet. I feel myself blush. No matter how many times my friends tell me to downsize the satchel before it throws my back out, I’ve never taken the time. “I carry my whole life in here these days.” I hold it up and shake it, the contents settling deeper inside the soft leather bag. “Too bad it wasn’t full of money.”

“That’d be a great problem to have, huh?”

I nod. “As for my name, it’s a family thing. My grandmother sounded like a queen every time she said her full name. Poor thing had to take a breath when she tried to say it all at once. God rest her soul.”

“I’m sorry. You must have been pretty close,” he says.

I nod. “We really were.” I go back to my seat, as does Ben. “Your turn.”

He smiles. “For what?”

“As important as I’m sure you are, Ben isn’t likely your only name. Let’s face it; Madonna, Cher, and Prince would be rare company to keep. ”

“Benjamin Franklin Cooper.”

“Franklin? Wow, your parents are awesome.”

Ben blushes and looks away. Max, not everyone gets your humor. Be cool .

Ben gazes around the restaurant and shrugs. “I pass this place all the time and it always looks so good.” He looks at the stain on his shirt. “You know, in a laundry-emergency kind of way.” His charming smile and ability to take a ribbing and keep going draw me in further.

Now fully interested, I cock my head to the side and eye him a bit more. His hands are strong but clean. No crow’s feet, probably thirty, thirty-two tops. A diamond-shaped birthmark on the back of his right hand and a pencil eraser-sized beauty mark peeking out from his collar, the only visible blemishes in sight. “What made you decide to stop in tonight?” I ask, stealing a glance at his naked ring finger.

“I’m not sure,” Ben says, but he glances quickly up and catches my eye for a fleeting moment. Heat rises to my cheeks—could this guy be gay too?

“Were you headed home from work?”

He nods. “I work at the county hospital.”

“Doctor?”

“Yep. ER. You’d be surprised at the stuff I see coming through that door on a full moon.”

“That’s tonight, isn’t it?”

“Sure is.” He runs his fingers through his thick crop of hair before rubbing the back of his neck. He sighs, clearly exhausted.

“Yeah, full moon nights are crazy,” I say quietly. I find myself touching my abdomen over my black t-shirt, the raised scar tissue running from just below my left pec to two inches below my belly button. “Unpredictable.”

“Well,” Ben says, “I guess I stopped here to be a little more unpredictable myself. ”

A silence settles over us, but there is nothing awkward about it. A few moments pass before Ben peeks under the napkin. “I don’t think I’m going to eat the rest.”

I look at my own plate and push it away. “Me neither.”

“Speaking of trying to be more unpredictable,” Ben says, “would you want to get out of here? Maybe we could go somewhere less…” He pushes the napkin down on the burrito and smiles as the grease soaks it, then looks up at me and grins.

Holy crap. Am I ready for this? I haven’t been on a date since I left the police force. Plus, I’m headed to work. Should I encourage him, maybe exchange numbers—or is it still too soon?

A screech of tires.

Ben spins toward the street-side window and his eyes widen.

A large, dark blue, four-door sedan slides sideways trying to avoid the collision, but the black SUV plows through the red light anyway. The sedan jumps the curb and slams sidelong into the light pole. Pedestrians scream as black smoke begins pouring out from under the hood, threatening to ignite.

“Shit!” I jump to my feet. “Call 9-1-1!” I shout to the woman behind the counter.

I grab Ben’s hand. “Come with me, Doc.” Pulling him to the side exit, I kick open the door. Control the scene.

“Doc, check on everyone—make sure no one was hit by debris.” Glass crunches underfoot as I run toward the sedan. “Everyone, back!” I bark.

A woman sits on the curb cradling her arm and crying. Blood soaks her shirt. I turn my head and yell, “Doc! Injury here!” I keep running forward.

A voice comes from the mangled vehicle. “Help me.” I stop in my tracks when I realize the front end of the car is wrapped around the light pole. I push my fear aside and keep moving toward the wreck. The smoke is so thick and black that it obscures my vision. My eyes water and my throat burns, but I pull my shirt up over my mouth and nose and keep moving.

Tiny fingers of orange flames flicker from under the hood. “Dammit,” I say. How much time do I have before the fire finds the fuel line? I turn back to the ever-growing crowd of looky-loos and pull the shirt away from my face long enough to yell, “Everyone, get back. Is anyone on the phone with 9-1-1?” There’s no response, except a bunch of blank stares and cellphone cameras pointed at the unfolding disaster.

“Please… help me.” The voice draws me back to the sedan. A light breath of wind takes the smoke in the opposite direction for a moment, revealing the victim—a young, dark-haired girl no older than eighteen.

I rush to the car and try the door. It won’t budge. “Listen to me,” I say to the girl. “Can you try and open the door from inside?” The girl, pale and bleeding profusely from her scalp, nods and feels around on the inside of the door. She struggles against the immovable hunk of twisted metal and starts crying.

“It won’t budge.”

“Don’t cry… look at me. What’s your name?” I ask.

“Jenny,” she says with a tearful sob.

A burst of smoke followed by an intensifying heat of flame tears from the engine compartment, causing me to back up a step, shielding my face with my arms. There’s no more time. I rush forward. “Unhook your belt. I need to pull you through the window.”

Jenny doesn’t move. I reach inside, take Jenny by the chin, and turn her face toward mine. We lock eyes. “I need you to focus on me. Now, can you move your arms and legs?”

She nods.

I scan the interior of the car, but the smoke is making it hard to see the backseat. “Are you alone in there?”

“Yes. ”

“Good. Unfasten your seatbelt. Do it now.”

The girl reaches down and presses the seatbelt button. I pull the belt away from Jenny and fling it to the side. “I need you to help me as I pull you through the window. Do you understand me?”

“Yes.”

I reach into the window and grab the girl by her arms. Using my right hip as leverage against the door, I hook my arms under the girl’s and heave up and to the side with all my might. Within moments, the girl is freed and now lies in a crumpled heap on the ground.

“Can you walk?” I tug at her arms, assisting her. The girl makes it to her feet and hobbles away from the burning car with her arm around my waist.

Once we are clear, I help her sit. Suddenly, something from my periphery catches my attention and as I turn, a man runs past me. I step back, but the man still brushes up against me. The exchange has only been a split second, but something feels off. I turn and see the man’s figure disappear around the corner. I make to run after the man, driven by pure instinct, when I feel a tug on my pant leg.

Through tears and ragged coughs, Jenny says, “Thank you.”

A deafening pop of exploding tires makes me turn, jump, and drape myself protectively over the young girl. The intense heat makes me sweat and prickles my skin. The gasps from the crowd subside within a few moments, replaced by the sounds of emergency vehicles drawing closer—their flashing lights reflecting off the building windows all around us.

“Help is on the way,” I say and try to give Jenny a reassuring smile. The pretty young girl’s face is caked with blood. “Oh honey, you’re still bleeding.” I rub Jenny’s arm. “Can you give me one of your socks?”

Jenny removes her shoe and sock and hands it to me. I fold the sock and press it to the top of her head. She winces under the pain. “I need you to hold this on there until the medics get here to help you. Can you do that for me?”

She nods and pushes down on the wound. The flow of blood stops dripping into her eyes. She’ll have a nasty scar, but unless she goes bald, no one will notice.

I flinch as the fire truck screeches to a stop across 48th Street. The firemen pile out of the engine and turn their hose on the fire. Seconds later, squad cars block all four sides of the intersection at 48th Street and Western Ave. The police officers blow whistles and start directing traffic. The ever-growing crowd gasps in awe at each new sound or action from the officials in uniform. Memories of holding back the masses, directing incoming units, and even controlling my own feelings of fear during dangerous events, come flooding back while I wait for the officers to come to me for a statement. I close my eyes and let my mind drift. How many accidents have I worked? How many people have I saved and lost? The scar on my stomach tingles again, drawing my attention away from my memories and back to the scene playing out in real time.

I stand and search the crowd for the nearest officer. He is a few yards away between the bus stop sign and bench along Western Ave. I hurry over to him. “Hello, my name is Maximo Salgado.”

At first, the gentleman in blue raises a hand to silence me as he hasn’t finished talking to the man he’s been interviewing, but then he recognizes me. “Max?”

I nod.

“Oh wow, how long has it been?”

I study his face but don’t recognize him. I guess word gets around. “I’ve been off the force a few years now.” Gosh, how long has it really been?

“I heard what happened.” The pity in his eyes pisses me off. “Are you doing okay?”

“I’m fine.” I force a pleasant, albeit tired expression.

“What are you doing these days?” he asks in a tone better suited for funerals than interviewing witnesses at a car accident.

“I’m the new curator at the Natural History Museum of Los Angeles County.” Saying the words out loud leaves the officer looking confused and me feeling uncomfortable as the silence between us grows.

“Whatever, it pays the bills… right?” You worked hard to get your PhD, don’t be ashamed , I think.

“Sorry, I…” He stammers a few expressions bordering on survivor’s guilt that I refuse to acknowledge or listen to. Yeah, buddy, I used to think having a job outside of being a cop was impossible too. “Could I please give a statement so I can get to work?”

“Oh,” he says, faltering. “For sure.” He turns the page of his notepad and double clicks his pen.

I give him a detailed description of everything I’ve witnessed and then walk away. The crowd has continued to grow, and the wall of humanity presses in closer. The onlookers seem too thick and impenetrable to get through, but there’s no real second choice. I have to get through. “Excuse me,” I say as I slide my body between an elderly couple.

The woman reaches out and puts a hand on my shoulder. “My dear, you’re an angel.” I look back and smile with a slight nod.

“You saved that poor girl,” she continues. “Bless you.”

“Thank you.” I turn and push my way through the rest of the people crammed together trying to get a better look. I raise my arm to grab ahold of the bench near me to pull myself free of the group, but my trapezius muscles and lats ache from the strain of pulling Jenny through the window. I cough, causing my breaths to become ragged and hitched. The smoke I inhaled tests my will to continue on to work. How am I going to even show up on time, never mind get through my whole shift? Maybe I’ll go to the doctor—Ben. Where is Ben? I turn back toward the crowd once I make it to the top of the slight incline near the side entrance to the restaurant.

Cops, paramedics, onlookers, and flashing lights, but no Ben. My posture sags, and my legs feel heavy. Oh well. Zombie-walking back into Taco Caliente, I look for my satchel. “Excuse me,” I say to the young family seated where I’d been eating less than an hour ago. “Did you happen to see a light brown leather bag on this table?”

The couple looks at each other for a moment. “Sorry, sir,” the wife says. “When we got here, the table was clear.”

Dammit. “Thanks.” I go to the food pick-up counter and wait for someone to see me.

“Can I help you?” the middle-aged man with a manager’s tag asks.

I squint at his name tag. “Hi, Hector. Did anyone turn in a leather satchel?”

He nods. “What’s your name, young man?”

“Maximo Ulysses Salgado.”

“Cool name,” he says with a smile. “I saw what you did for that girl out there. You’re a hero.” He reaches under the counter and hands me the bag. “I put some Eat-On-Us cards in there for you too.”

“Aww, you didn’t have to do that.” I would no doubt feel more excited about getting free food the next time I’m hungry.

“Bless you,” Hector says, reaching out to shake my hand.

I squeeze his hand for a second. “Thank you. I appreciate the food and for keeping my belongings safe.”

“Oh, wait a second,” Hector says. His face lights up with a smile, and he giggles as he runs to the cash register. He whispers something to the kid behind the counter, who hands him a slip of paper. Hector hands it to me. “The handsome gentleman with dimples left this for you.” He winks.

“Thanks,” I say. I unfold the paper. Sorry, had to go back to the hospital. Call me sometime, Ben. His number is written, neat and legible, under his name—a surprising skill for a doctor.

Hector waves as he walks back to the register. “Can I help who’s next?”

I sling the bag over my shoulder and head for the door. Hector’s kindness and Ben’s little note work as both a painkiller and antidepressant, but it won’t stop me from getting a coffee on my way to work. Thankfully, I had some money on my coffee app since I didn’t have anymore cash on me. I hurry to my car. A light breeze blows, helping to evaporate the sweat and making me shiver. It isn’t until a glint of light draws my attention to the driver’s side mirror that I stop short.

Hanging from the Prius side mirror, twirling in the unsettled air, is a silver ankh. My heart begins to race, and my breaths grow rapid and shallow. Willing myself forward, I reach for the ancient Egyptian religious symbol with trembling fingers.

I rip the frayed twine string from which it hangs and stare at it as I turn it over in my hand. I squint at the tiny hieroglyphic symbols covering the back surface of the ankh. As I rub my finger along the carved edges, my stomach tightens, sending the gorge from my belly rushing to my throat. I stagger and brace myself against the car door. How could this happen? My former attacker had been declared dead.

Someone is fucking with me. I search the parking lot for signs of something being off, but there’s nothing. Couples walk hand-in-hand, and children pull away from their parents as they hurry to go inside the restaurant. I’d seen the man’s body convulse with each shot my partner had fired. Saw his body tip over the side of the Sixth Street Bridge. Heard the slap of his body on the L.A. River.

But they’d never found the body. The river was flowing high and fast that rainy night. Everyone assured me he’d become fish food.

It’s been years. I’ve changed my life. I’m not a cop anymore. So why now? I straighten to full height and smooth my shirt, clenching the ankh against my palm. If I’m being watched, I need to show strength, but who is doing this to me? Willing myself to move, I open the car door and get inside, slamming it closed behind me.

After locking the door, I open my palm and look at the ankh again. Tears fill my eyes. A hot point of phantom pain starts under my pec and slowly burns along the path the madman had cut down my abdomen—a large, mirrored image of the symbol I hold in my hand. My finger goes to the scar. I swallow hard and take a deep breath.

I flip the glovebox open and hurl the pendant inside. Slamming the compartment shut, I set my jaw and grit my teeth. This better not be someone’s idea of a sick joke. I start the car and peel out of the parking space onto Western Avenue.