Steve Burns

“Joe, Sheila Masters thinks you killed her partner…” Scott Raines said.

“Wait a minute, Scott, I didn’t even fire my piece,” said Joe, defensively.

“I know that. Hell, we all know that. The fact of the matter is, she thinks you killed her friend, Tyrone. She said she will talk to you and give herself up to you alone.” Scott Raines paused. “She says she will kill someone else if she does not talk to you. Joe, you are off administrative leave. I am sending a patrol unit to pick you up. You must be at the office in fifty minutes to take her call.”

Joe was dumbfounded. Two minutes earlier, he had given up; nobody wanted him. Now Scott Raines stopped just short of begging him to come back.

Directly above them, dangling from a makeshift rope of bed sheets was Leonard Jefferson. He was almost level with the windows of the second floor. When he saw the two officers he began struggling on the sheets. His gyrations caused the pistol in his waistband to slip out and fall.

“Look out!” yelled Clark, pulling Rusty out of the path of the pistol. It hit the ground with a metallic “crack” and skittered across the pavement. The two officers stuck their heads back out cautiously. Jefferson swung back and forth banging into the wall of the motel.

Joaquin watched with annoyance as two United States Immigration and Naturalization Service vans pulled in front of the restaurant and stopped. The van disgorged agents in their dark green uniforms and they began herding the workers to curbside to check for green cards.

“Hey, Pablo, you waiting for an invitation or what?” asked the harsh voice with the southern twang from behind Joaquin. He ignored the voice; he had been rousted innumerable times, but was always released after he produced his green card.

“Hey…I’m talking to you,” said the voice, this time accompanied with the prod of a billy club in Joaquin’s back. Joaquin took a deep breath, checking his anger. He then stood and turned to face the agent.

“Lo siento, no hablo,” said Joaquin with a smirk. The young officer had a flat top haircut and far too many freckles to be taken seriously. His name tag read “Robert Pritchard.”

“That’s okay,” replied the cocky agent. “Yo hablo. Papeles, ahora.”

“Bueno, un momento,” smiled Joaquin as he reached for his wallet in his back pocket. The smile left his face when he suddenly realized he had left the wallet in his Bronco. The Bronco he had carefully parked four blocks away. This was not good.

Colin continued running to the corner, then turned back to Kettner Boulevard. He saw a blue Ford Bronco driving south on Kettner as he reached the corner. There appeared to be only a Hispanic driver. The Bronco was too far away to read the license plates. He mentally filed the information. He was looking for a black man and a white woman.

He slowed to a jog as he continued up Kettner, looking into the fenced yards and parking lots of commercial buildings. As he passed a gap between two warehouses he stopped to look. Under the harsh glare of the security lights, he could see two figures among the debris at the other end. The first was sitting slumped with his back against the wall. The other was lying on his back.

Colin stepped away from the entrance to the passageway. Pointing his pistol toward the figures, using the corner of the warehouse for cover, he surveyed the passageway. He waited several seconds looking for any movement, listening for any sound. Although he could see no movement from the figures, he could hear a faint mumbling. Nothing else stirred in the corridor.

Leonard’s telephone call had left Joaquin very anxious. He was upset at Leonard for hiring two people of questionable ability and discretion. Now Leonard had told him they were snitches. He had only met Sheila and Tyrone once. He did not like either one. Tyrone was stupid. Stupidity was not a fault which could be tolerated in his business. Sheila on the other hand was a woman. Joaquin simply did not like to work with women. They were unreliable and moody. He did not need that. If he wanted that, he could stay home with his wife.

Joaquin and Leonard had agreed the best thing to do was to get rid of Sheila and Tyrone. Since they knew Leonard, he probably could not get close enough to do the job. Joaquin would raise little suspicion; he was just another of Leonard’s workers, as far as they knew. He would go to them at their motel and tell them that Leonard wanted to see them. When they opened the door to the room, “pop, pop.” And that would be that.

Now, as Tyrone maneuvered his way through the light rain, Sheila sat in the passenger seat chewing her thumb nail, staring out the window of the Dodge Caravan. She rocked back and forth, quietly humming the song Elizi had sung to her their last night together.

“What d’ya think Leonard’s gonna say?” asked Tyrone.

“I guess we’ll find out when we tell him,” said Sheila, annoyed to be disturbed.

“Should we go to the club tonight?” asked Tyrone.

“That’s where he said he would be. Just drive, OK?” snapped Sheila.

Tyrone bit his lip; he was never really sure how to act around Sheila when she got this way. He did know it was best to do as she said. Tyrone continued the drive to their budget motel on Pacific Coast Highway. The rain had changed to a heavy mist.

“There, pull up next to that van and stop,” said the big man. The van, an older brown-colored Dodge Caravan, sat parked next to the rear door of the bar.

Josef did as he was told.

“Wait here. Don’t even think about leaving. If the thought does cross your mind, Habib, just remember, I’ve seen what your family looks like and I might be inclined to pay them a visit.” He smiled menacingly as he got out of the cab and dashed the few short yards to the rear door of the bar and disappeared inside.

Josef turned around and looked down at the small man in the back seat. He turned back, raising his eyes, and sighed. The big man paid him; he was probably going to let him go, he thought. Wait here, that’s the best thing to do. It will all be over in a few minutes. Just a few more minutes.

“Wake up, Joe! Goddammit! You’re drunk again!” the voice shrieked at him, fingernails digging into his shoulders as he was shaken awake. He slowly opened his eyes to the enraged face of Francine. “You fucking drunk, where’s Joey! I can’t leave you alone for two hours.”

He bolted upright on the leather couch in his living room. Oh no, not again, he thought, his brain unable to make his mouth work. “Outside, hurry! In the back!” he was screaming, but no sound came. He lurched off the couch, crashing through the glass coffee table, slicing his arm, but feeling no pain. His blood spilled on the orange shag carpet which had the consistency and stability of Jello.

“Hurry, hurry, Francine! Not this time, we can save him,” he soundlessly implored her. No voice came from her mouth, her face contorted with jeering hatred. He slogged his way across the floor to the sliding glass patio door. He could not find the handle and began pounding on it. He could see the open gate just beyond which led to the swimming pool, the plastic Hot Wheels tricycle bobbing up and down at the edge. Suddenly he was in the pool, it was miles across. At the far side stood Joey, waving, beckoning him.

An individual under the influence of LSD experiences mild cardiovascular stimulation and, of course, mild to severe hallucinations. Behavior exhibited by the user may fluctuate between catatonia and manic outbursts. To the inexperienced and unsuspecting, the hallucinations can range emotionally from pleasant to terrifying, consisting mainly of an altered perception of all the human senses. The individual’s environment also plays an important role in the “trip” experience as well.

As with many other legal and illegal substances, the human body tends to develop a tolerance and may require more to achieve the desired effect. And while the jury is still out on physical addiction, most professionals in the health care field agree that LSD can at least be psychologically addictive, leading to short or long term personality changes.

In other words, the effects of LSD remain unpredictable.