CHAPTERS ONE THROUGH SIXTEEN
Editor and Publisher of BUREAU of ARTS and CULTURE
Announces a New Experimental Serial Novel about Los Angeles.
Mr Triliegi will write a chapter a day for the next few weeks and
post the results in various languages at the three blog spots that
regularly showcase Art, Theater, Music and Community events.
" I thought it would be a good writing exercise to simply write
about what I see and hear everyday on the streets of the city.
To simply create a chapter a day based on the people and things
going on in Los Angeles. Since we all come from so many back-
grounds, styles, cultures and languages, I decided to structure
the multi character novel to represent all of Los Angeles. I simply
write a chapter a day by allowing the characters to unfold & the
story to reveal itself based directly on the things I see and hear."
" Its pure fiction based on generalities. For instance, Chapter Three,
which was inspired by a girl I saw on the bus earlier in the day, she
had a sketch book with some nice artworks and I thought about her."
Or Chapter One, based on a conversation I had with a guy who was
entering back into society from a long stretch in the penitentiary.
I thought about what other people in his life may have been thinking."
" Its a challenge to simply introduce a character and follow the
creative
line as it flows into something structured and complete. I usually know
the beginning and the end of each Chapter, and simply let the middle
fill itself out. I like the daily discipline as well as the audience
being
in on the process. In this particular case, I don't really take notes.
I just start with an idea and let it flow. This is not a normal novel by
any means, but it is a new and interesting challenge for both the
writer and the readers. Were publishing it in three cities and a wide
variety of languages, English, Italian, French, Chinese, Armenian,
Chinese, Hebrew, Japanese & Korean so far. Its been a lot of fun
I hope the people of Los Angeles and the world will follow it out as
it reveals itself. As the writer, in this particular case, I am just as
curious as the reader as to what will happen and how things will go.
The cool thing about this project is how quickly the characters began
to take on a life of their own. "
" Its an interesting way to work. I am putting together several other
writing projects and decided that this would be a good warmer upper.
We get anywhere from a 50 to 400+ views a day on our website for
our Articles, Reviews and especially our Audio Interviews, so this
particular literature project should be good exercise and at the same
time, allow people to see how a novel is actually created day by day."
They Call It The City of Angels
A New Serial Novel by Joshua A. TRILIEGI
Exclusively for Readers of BUREAU of ARTS and CULTURE and
our Three sites in Los Angeles, San Francisco and New York City
All National & International Copy Rights Reserved to the Author
Chapter One: Louis
Los Angeles is a funny place to live, but those laughing were
usually from out of town. Louis was a busboy down at Old Ma
Fritters Cafe & Saloon, the longest running truck stop in the
Harbor. He had been a busboy for almost twenty six years,
before that, he washed dishes, before that, he attended the
parking lot. Directing the truck drivers where to park, making
sure the working mom's could get in and out without missing
a beat, knowing the difference between regulars who ate at the
counter and the new comers who were most likely in town to
visit the Queen Mary or take a cruise Catalina Island for the day.
All in all, Louis was a quiet, hard working man with a simple view
on life. He was happy to have a job, never missed a day of work,
except the day his son was sentenced to seventeen years in the
penitentiary for manslaughter. That was over fifteen years ago
and today was the day that Louis Junior would come home,
this made him nervous.
Since that time, his wife had a stroke, his daughter had married
a local cop and he had three beautiful grandkids. So much had
changed since louis junior had gone away. In 1976, it was a old
world, now it was nineteen-ninety-one. The Dodgers entire team
had been replaced, there were new presidents, everything was
different. But still, he showed up to work on time and already
the word had gotten out that Louis Junior was back in town and
heading this way. He had reservations. He knew that Junior was
a good kid, got caught up with the wrong friends early on, had
been picked on and turned tough gut mostly for his own survival.
The accident had been complicated, it had involved a rival member
of another group of kids as well as one of Junior's ex- girlfriends
and to top it off the first cop on the scene was Louis' s new son-in
-law, Chuck, who happened to be white. They all lived in a big
victorian style house just above the port, which had a guest house
where Louis senior lived and in the big house, his daughter, Celia,
Chuck and the three girls, Cindy, Donna and Francine. It was a
good life, most of the time. Louis wondered exactly what he would
say, where junior would sleep and how all of this would play out.
He figured junior could stay on the couch in the guest house and
later he could break the news that after all was said and done:
Chuck had met Celia after that day in court and one thing led to
another, as things like this often do & well, here we are, a family.
He couldn't know exactly what Junior would think, say or do, but
he knew it wouldn't be a smooth transition. Junior had been saved
in the joint and had found god. He belonged to an outreach program
that was ready to offer him a chance to work and go back to school,
but housing was not provided. So, Louis said, " Yes son, of course
you can stay with us while you get back on your feet. " And so the
day started, as these days often do down in the port. Up at 5 AM,
to work by five thirty, he'd have an early lunch and since everyone
knew junior was coming home, had the choice to go home early,
but had already decide to stay the duration. Work was his way of
dealing with the troubles of life. It steadied his resolve, gave him
roots, kept him calm, kept him centered, even if deep down inside,
he knew that this was not an ordinary day and that things could
go bad.
No one was more aware of the impending problems than Chuck,
who worked at the front desk office directly across from the loading
docks at the longshore pick up and delivery. He hadn't seen Junior
since that day in court and before that the terrible rainy night on the
street with bodies mangled, wind swept asphalt, palm trees bending
to the ground and a fierce full moon reflecting anguish, pain and death,
in his eyes. He couldn't sleep all that morning. For a cop, he was, not
a total square, his own brother had been a pot dealer back in the nine-
teen sixties and since then, he himself had imbibed more than a few
glasses of whiskey a night. He was hip to jazz music, loved the various
cultures in Los Angeles and more than anything, adored his wife and
three girls. His family was his everything. He was thinking about junior
as he pulled into the cafe to get breakfast to go, and three cups of joe
for the boys at the office, who secretly hated the coffee served in the
back room. Ma Fritters Coffee was made with a pinch of cinnamon and
was generally strong compared to the instant regulation joe that the
knuckle heads made. Know one said anything as Chuck pulled into the
cafe, but everyone knew what was on their minds as Louis and Chuck
exchanged words in the parking lot. The waitresses and line cooks
stopped what they were doing and saying for just a second or two
and sure enough a hush drifted through the place. Those who didn't
know the score figured it out pretty quick. The cop and the busboy,
who was actually a fully grown man with grandkids, chatted quietly
about the day. Neither had figured out what was the best way to deal
with it, nor did they fully understand how junior would take it: both
understood it wouldn't be easy. Life in the L.A. Harbor never was.
They Call It The City of Angels
Chapter Two: Mickey
"Look left, then right, then left again." What the hell is so difficult
about that ? Mickey muttered out loud to some mindless quack as
he skidded around the car and cranked his wrist an eighth of an inch,
which meant he was now riding from a basic twenty-five miles per
hour to the preferred forty-five along the coast of Malibu and on
into Venice beach where he kept a shop that tended strictly to Harley-
Davidson's. Mickey was a third generation biker, his Dad had known
some pretty serious guys back in the day. His grandfather had driven
a Harley from Washington State clear down to Southern California
back in the nineteen forties before going off to war, with the rest of
his generation. Back when Mickey was a kid, bikers were hated and
or feared by the general populist. Now, everybody and their grandma
wants to claim some piece of this heritage. His old man fixed bikes for
some of the well known biker gangs throughout California, but he never
actually signed up, if you know what I mean. What they call a civilian.
When his old man left town for a month, which turned into a decade,
Mickey finally took a crow bar to the lock on the old man's wood shed,
found his tools and started a business of his own. It wasn't one of
those
places with a big neon sign or anything like that, he just fixed bikes
for
guys in the neighborhood and eventually had a couple dozen regulars
and that was it. He had been offered partnerships before by local shops,
investors, squares with enough money to set him up well, but simply
didn't want the hassle. " As soon as you take their money, they own
you." That was his usual reply, but lately he'd gotten tired of the
bullshit.
Guys not paying what they owed, insurance companies not releasing
the funds on time, just cause they knew he was an unofficial Harley
repairman, as opposed to the guys with the big signs out front. Part
of him rejected the whole idea of middle America embracing the Harley
phenomenon. The other part of him knew it was good for business and
just might bring the company back into a thriving system, where bikers
could get some respect again. So, when a local rich kid offered him
10,000 dollars to expand the shop, he took it. Reluctantly, accepted a
chance to buy some new tools, get bonded, insured, even had the business
officially certified with a doing business as 'Mickey's Motorcycles'
license.
Some people said Mickey's old man had gone to Mexico, others figured
he got caught up in some kind of deal gone awry. There was talk that he
was overseas, Amsterdam maybe. No one knew for sure. He had stopped
thinking about it a few years back. Mickey made the house payments, took
care of his grandmother and tolerated his Mothers new boyfriends as best
he could. So much had changed since they were kids, growing up in Venice
beach. Back then it was mostly poor folks, now the place was turning
into
something else: well known actors, architects, airline pilots. It was a
good
thing his old man bought the place otherwise Mickey and his girlfriend,
Moon, would have been out of that neighborhood years ago. They lived a
block and a half away from Dennis Hopper's house & when Hopper bought
a Harley, Mickey was the guy he brought it to. Who didn't want to hang
out with Dennis Hopper? Mickey had creds on the street and in the hills,
which was kind of rare. He had clients up and down the coast and didn't
mind much making house calls, even if it took a couple days. He'd crash
out on the couch or garage or guest house until the job was done. Most
guys liked his company and liked to hear him wax poetic about the early
days of Rock and Roll, his mom had been the manager of several bands
up in the bay area and he knew just about everyone from Jerry Garcia's
to The Moby Grape's. People would say that Mickey was made from a
kind of American counter culture royalty. But, he shunned all that talk.
One of those quiet throw backs, except when it came to Moon, his only
truly admittedly obsessive relationship. Whatever she wanted, she got.
Moon was his first and only love. Once they had broken up for a day and
a half during high school graduation. A Friday night and all of
Saturday,
by Sunday morning, they were back together and never looked back.
As he pulled into the driveway, he glanced over to find his mother's new
boyfriend's red convertible, the passenger side windshield was riddled
with
what looked like bullet holes, upon closer inspection, he realized the
holes
were made with stiletto heels kicked from the inside out. "Here we go."
he thought, as he turned off the bike and figured, o.k. this generator
is
fixed. He knew there was something brewing, so he quietly strolled past
the front house and headed straight for Pop's shed. Always a safe
refuge.
But there in the back yard was the boyfriend wearing nothing more than
a pair of Ray-Bans and in a see through nighty, his Mom attending the
barbecue. " For christ sake Mag, what if Calley walks back here ?"
who momentarily turns in his direction, " Oh Mick, grow up will ya ? "
She had been telling him that since the time he was ten years old :
"Your not a kid anymore mick, your ten years old now, grow up."
He did. Got back on the bike, which he hadn't planned on returning
to his client till tomorrow, ripped up Pacific Coast Highway and on
into Zuma Beach, collected his fee and instead of getting a ride from
Jay, simply hopped on the Bus and called it a day. That's when he
noticed a beach comber who sure looked a lot like his dad. "That's
impossible. Must be going nuts. I gotta get out of here." He did.
They Call It The City of Angels
Chapter Three: Josie
Josie was an artist. They had noticed that right away. By the time
she was three, she could sing a tune. By the time she was nine, she
could mimic any dance movement. By the time she was twelve she
could draw realistic pictures that were up to scratch with any adult.
Today is Josie's birthday. Her room is covered in teen beat posters.
Packs of Bubble-Yum chewing gum on the dresser. Photographs of
her girlfriend's at school, at the beach, at the park, award ribbons
from art, dance and singing contests, a letter of recommendation
from an art teacher at the local university, a pair of tennis shoes
in the corner and of course her dozens of sketchbooks filled with
classic portraits of friends, people she observed, objects, places.
Her parents had immigrated in the early nineteen sixties, they gave
her an American name, things were going to be hard enough for her
as it was, they figured, she was born here, she's the first American
in our family, lets go with the flow. Her Dad worked at a local factory,
her Mom was a homemaker of the old world style, she sewed, cooked,
gardened and kept the books. Josie was wide open when it came to
discussing friends, school, dreams and the future, but when it came to
her boyfriends, she never ever told a soul. Not her parents, not her
girlfriends, no one. So when she started dating Louis, who was a few
years older, no one had anything to worry about, because no one knew.
He had that protective quality that some guys have, she felt safe around
him. He was knocked out by her talents, even had her design tattoos for
him and his friends. It was a taboo sort of love, the kind that couldn't
last longer than a summer and it didn't. Louis eventually started dating
girls his age and Josie rebounded with a kid from her own school and
neighborhood. But deep down inside, she still had a love for Louis and
even though he didn't know it, he too was still in love with her.
By the time winter came along, they found themselves in the awkward
situation of having to see one another, sometimes in the company of
each others new playmates. At first this seemed easy, smile, wave, a
simple hello or how ya doing ? But after these moments, Louis found
himself troubled, confused, sometimes even angry. He didn't know who
he was angry with, Josie, the new boyfriend or himself, he just knew
that something wasn't exactly settled and it really confused him to the
point where sometimes he couldn't sleep. So, he started to call her up
just to say hi, then Josie's new boyfriend got word of this and reacted
accordingly. One thing led to another and now the boys were talking
about a showdown. The kind that spreads quickly, the word got out,
after a dance at school, they were going to meet and settled this thing.
Josie freaked when she found out, felt guilty, felt responsible and had
no one to tell because this was a part of her life she had always kept
to herself. So the pressure mounted until the night of the dance.
At first Josie said she wasn't going, then she changed her mind and told
Ryan, her new boyfriend, that she was going with friends and they could
talk after the dance, hoping this would diffuse the pressure and by then
she could help avoid an actual fight. Though, the way things went only
worsened the situation. Instead of avoiding a fist fight the entire
event
became a drag race through the boulevards of Los Angeles and by the
end of the night a car flipped in mid air, up an over the railroad
tracks.
Josie's Dad knocked on her bedroom door, no one answered. He called
her girlfriend's parents, no one knew what happened. Eventually they got
a call from officer Chuck of the county police department explaining
that
there had a been a terrible accident and could they please come down to
the Harbor hospital to help sort something out. They were unsure about
the identity of a person and needed verification. When Josie's parents
arrived, Chuck was standing in the hallway, clipboard in hand, this was
the most difficult part of his job. He could handle the tough guys, the
smart aleck public, the other cops on the squad, but he couldn't hold
his
water when it came to telling parents that we think your child is dead.
Josies's parents were led into a well lit room, two bodies were laying
on
aluminum stretchers with sheets covering each. The bodies had been
washed
of all blood, but there was nothing that could be done about all the
torn and
mangled flesh. Josie was under one of the sheets, Ryan was under the
other.
It was the first time their parents would ever meet. Eventually they
would
meet again in court and again at the arraignments and again upon Louis's
release from prison. Today is Josie's birthday and if she hadn't died
back in
nineteen seventy-six, she would have been thirty years old. Her dad
closed
the bedroom door, which he kept exactly as it had been the day she died,
wiped his eyes and promised himself that someone was gonna pay for this
pain. By then, he'd lost his wife and by now he began to lose is mind.
They Call It The City of Angels
Chapter Four: Jordan
Jordan is a bus driver, it didn't define him, he's also a bass man,
a basketball coach, a bit of a poet too. He is the youngest bus
driver in all of Los Angeles County. Came out here to get away
from a seriously tragic family history. Born in Detroit, the week
of the famous riots, his dad was a serious player and took the fall
for being a member of an elite crew of dudes who actually helped
to start it. His Mom was in and out of town so much, he hardly
knew her. Came out here alone on a one time musical scholarship.
Recently, he ended up hocking his bass, a red fender given to him
by his uncle, still had the pawn ticket in his wallet, been meaning
to get over there to extend the loan voucher another ninety days so
he could get it back after paying up in full. Wanted to buy his girl
a pair of earrings and figured he could always get the bass back,
but with his car payment, rent and all the rest, he just let it drift.
He was two weeks away from getting off probation from
the transit authority. Six weeks of training and almost a
year driving and finally he would be able to exhale. His first
route started near LAX Airport, up La Brea, over to Crenshaw,
past Leimert Park & around Rodeo, down Martin Luther King
to The Sports Arena and back around again. He liked it.
reminded him of his parents, his heritage, his people.
But now, they had him driving from Venice Boulevard onto
the 405 freeway, up through Santa Monica onto Pacific Coast
Highway, past Pepperdine University and all the way up to
Malibu Pier and back again. Most people would have loved
that route but Jordan always said the drivers were snobs, the
kids crossed the street without looking, carrying surfboards,
lawn chairs, tourists from all corners of the world, asking
directions to places he never heard of, in languages he never
knew. He was hoping to get his old route back, but as the odd
man at transit authority, the chances were mighty slim. Most
of the drivers, managers, supervisors and radio dispatch persons
were steeped in the Jesus thing: Baptist, Christian, Catholic,
Protestant, you name it. Jordan was a third generation Muslim.
His Daddy, his Granddad, his Uncles, some of his Aunts and him.
He had already made his four rotations by seven o'clock that
evening, grabbed a cup of coffee and was looking forward to
seeing his lady for a late dinner at her place. Just past the
Malibu Pier, an area where he was always extra careful, he
slowed down a bit and coasted around the curve through to
the next straight away stretch, the sun was setting a golden,
peach - like glow, palm trees silhouetted in an all black design
that looked like a postcard. It wasn't Crenshaw, but it could of
been worse. Some routes were very tough on a driver, others
were easy street. Looking down the highway, he noticed a small
dark circle along the horizon line, couldn't figure out what it was.
A trash-bag? A backpack ? As he got closer, the object came into
view, it was a turtle, a rather large sized turtle crawling from
left to right, he swerved to the right avoiding the turtle, as he
did so, a camper van parked on the right pulled out in front of
him, and as it did, that is when he noticed the beachcomber
standing directly in his path, hit the brakes, skidding several
yards and slamming into the beachcombers several bags and
eventually knocking him to the asphalt, he turned to ask the
lone passenger if he had seen what just happened, but not a
soul was on the bus. " Could have sworn that cat was still on."
The first thing you are supposed to do is call it in. But Jordan,
just on reflex jumped off the bus to see what happened. He
looked down and splayed across the highway were several
small packages wrapped in brown paper and masking tape.
He looked closer at the corner of one of the small bundles
and noticed it was full of currency, unmistakably dollar bills.
All day long he had to watch people putting bills into the slot
on his bus, the corners always bending, creating a problem.
If anyone knew what the corner of a dollar bill looked like,
it was Jordan. The beachcomber, was out like a light, but
when Jordan put his ear to the mans chest, he could hear him
breathing. He could also smell his breath, whiskey and onions.
Why a man does what he does is always a mystery, mostly to
the man himself, so when he reached to pick up one of the
bundles and put it in his inside left pocket, it seemed pretty
natural. He got back on the bus and called it in. By now the
sun was down. The highway was closed. Ambulance, cops,
transit authority, the whole shebang. When radio reporters,
traffic helicopters and the local television stations came out,
he figured that he was not only going to be late for dinner.
There was a good chance he was going to be fired, even if it
wasn't his fault, even if the guy was drunk. To top it off, the
turtle was no where to be seen, that was his whole defense.
Wanda heard about it on the radio before he even got home.
They Call It The City of Angels
Chapter Five: Cliff
Cliff was psychic, not for a living or anything like that. Just had
a knack for reading people, had a way with animals and a sort
of connection with the elements that was, let us say, out of the
ordinary. Like a lot of so-called handicapped persons, he had
some hidden gifts that made up for the fact that he couldn't
speak very well, had trouble with motor skills, would never be
able to hold down a job, keep a home or cook his own meals.
He was disabled as people like to say, remedial or worse even,
retarded. Cliff's father, Stan, was a judge, he always winced when
his colleagues used that term. His mother, Dora was a retired
lawyer who ran her own legal advisement company and would
actually correct people whenever they denigrated her son with
those types of labels. "Cliff is challenged, but he's no dummy." or
"He may need some help, but he's got a great heart." or "He has
his problems, but he's never said a bad thing about you." She was
nobodies fool. And by god she wasn't about to let people get away
with any mean spirited conversation about her only child.
He attended a sort of day care type of school. One in which there
were daily outings in between lessons, classes, working with sound,
colors, sometimes simplified mathematics and social sciences, to a
degree. In the classroom, his teachers were all certified practitioners,
but on daily social outings, volunteers were often on staff. Retired
widows, stay at home wives, middled aged women who were unmarried,
this kind of thing. They often took a group of kids to the park, out to
lunch or even to a museum every now and then. One day, one of Dora's
clients recognized him walking with his schoolmates and a volunteer
up past the L.A County Museum of Art. She specifically remembered
Cliff because her own daughter had some issues which led her to seek
legal advice and Cliff happened to be in the office with mom. Some
time later, the client mentioned in passing that she ran into Cliff at
the museum and couldn't help but notice that the kids were wearing
shirts and jackets of a wide variety with disparaging comments of
all sorts. Cliffs T-shirt, said in bold black letters : YOU STINK !
Another kid wore a hat that said, ' LOSER ' , another with a
jacket that stated, ' I never Loved You '. The client chuckled, asking
Dora where she bought it. Cliffs mom didn't buy it. In fact she had no
idea why her son was wearing it. Well, after some looking into, it
turned out that the ' volunteer ' had recently broke up with her boy
friend who happened to be a security guard at the museum, so she
made the kids wear these hats, coats and t-shirts unbeknownst to
any of the kids parents or the kids themselves. Further investigation
revealed that it had become a common practice among the volunteers
to do such a thing. The kids were being used as props. When Dora
found out about it in full, she brought it up to Stan and they decided
to do what any good legal family would do. They decided to sue.
Stan was a judge in high profile cases. Through the years, he had
watched his more liberal contemporaries end up in disparaging
posts such as traffic court in Compton or settling housing issues
Downtown, the Judge Judy type of detail. He had played his cards
right, literally. He was a kind man, patient, quiet, respected by his
bailiffs and well liked buy most of the people he worked with, not
necessarily by those he had sent to prison, but most everyone else.
Dora became a lawyer and later a legal advisor partly because they
were working in the same circles and partly to sort out the issues
they were having with Cliff early on. They loved Cliff immensely.
More than the usual parent might love a child and definitely more
than if he was, quote-unquote-normal. They had a nice size home
in the Valley and Stan drove North to work just a few miles away.
He tried not to bring his work home, but when your wife is a legal
advisor, a top notch lawyer really, it was almost impossible, cases
concerning children or abuse of authority or murder were always
a sticky issue, they both tended to lean pretty hard on the accused.
He was older by a few years, but Dora was mature for her age, so
it worked out pretty well. They all vacationed together twice a year
and during the holidays often took a cabin in the snowy topped local
mountains. Considering the situation with Cliff, they handled it well.
Around the time that Cliff became four, five and six , they noticed
he had a way of sensing what was going on , not only in their inner
lives, but also in the lives of people they worked with. If Stan had
a high profile case concerning an auto accident, Cliff might create
a drawing with unexplainable details. When Dora's mother was close
to death, he had drawn a picture of her final resting place two months
before they had chosen it. He was somehow reading the inner lives of
his parents and at first it freaked Stan out. Some days, before a big
trial,
Stan might peruse around cliffs room, looking for an image that might
help him with the case. Dora put a stop to it, but hey, who could blame
him? There son was psychic and they knew it. Wether Cliff knew it or not
didn't matter. Once, when Cliff was twelve, they woke up one early
morning
to find Cliff nestling with a Deer. He had no food to give it. He was
just
holding the dear, when they opened the door, it ran away. Another time,
a hummingbird flew into Cliffs room, sat on his finger, just sat there .
There were all kinds of encounters such as these. Dora thought maybe
she should mention it to a friend of a client who had written a book on
shamanism in the modern day, but Stan said no. He didn't want his
son ending up on some television show or lame story on NPR. It was
their secret. When Cliff got home that day, he took out a sketchbook
and drew a stunning and startling portrait of a man that Stan would
never forget, someone he hadn't thought about for fifteen years.
They Call It The City of Angels
Chapter Six: Chuck
Chuck wanted to make detective, so did half the guys in his
division. But he had been working on it actively for three and
a half years now. Had a friend downtown who advised him on
what to do, how to lay the groundwork. He started by making
friends on the street. If he found a tough guy, say, smoking pot
while driving. He'd pull him over, get his information, talk to
him a bit, instead of citing him, he'd tell him that smoking while
driving made no sense. He'd chat him up a bit, make a friend.
Later, after hours, he'd look up the kids record, run a check on
his family, find out where, when and how he hustled and made
it a point to meet him again. He did this for the past three years
and had connections all over Los Angeles, not just in his area.
He spent one day a week doing research, talking to other guys
who had made detective, even hanging around the division.
Everyone on the force knew he was angling, if it didn't interrupt
his local quotas, his desk duty and any other assignments,
no problem.
When word got out that his brother-in-law was getting out
of the joint after a fifteen year stint for manslaughter, people
started talking. Chuck realized that this was actually his
chance to make detective. These days everything on the street
was controlled by a unit of men incarcerated for decades and
sometimes for life. They gave the orders. Chuck knew that
after fifteen years, his brother-in-law, Junior had learned a
few things, things that could help Chuck move in on what they
call, the ' Big Dogs '. No detective would bother with some
small time peddlers, they all wanted a big catch, something
that would get some ink, something that would help them up
the ladder a few rungs. Recently, there had been a new crime
spreading through the city of Los Angeles. Somebody or a
group of people were torching palm trees in designated areas.
At first, they thought it was a kid or pyromaniac. As it spread
throughout Southern California, other theories popped up.
The burnt palm trees were a signal that certain local business
had not contributed to a certain individual or it was, 'a warning'
sign, 'a don't shop here' sign or a ' your on the list ' sign.
Chuck was in agreement that it was not random, he noticed
when, where and how it was playing out. Since making the
goal to become a detective, he had transformed the den into
an office. His wife and the girls knew Daddy was serious about
his work, so they watched television in the living room and
shared the master bedroom with bunk beds. While Chuck
and his wife Celia had what they commonly call a guest bed
room. Celia had an entire room to herself for dressing and
basic women's stuff with a vanity set Chuck bought when
they first got married.
In his office, which he always kept locked, Chuck had a map.
He followed murders: There had been over twenty-two in the
past ninety days. Drug busts: there had been three big ones in
the past forty-five days and dozens of small one's. Lately, he'd
been following the palm tree burnings. Even started reading
up on other incidents through history, from cross burnings to
lynching. Looking for something that might give him one up
on what was going down. The Mayor of Los Angeles, in an
official statement, directed to law enforcement had said that,
" The Palm Tree Burnings " were a scar on the city, were bad
for business, bad for tourism and had to be stopped. He wanted
a new kind of cooperation between departments wherever the
incidents had occurred. Incentives were given to both cops on
the street, detectives on the beat and even the local feds, since
several of the incidents had happened on federal property.
One happened on a reservation near Joshua Tree National
Forest and another happened directly in front of the Federal
building downtown. Some people said it was a scam, just another
distraction from the real crimes that were happening in L.A. :
Drug Smuggling, Child prostitution, Underground Pornography.
The so - called sanctioned crimes that made money. Chuck
didn't care what it was about, he had been told to get something
important on it and he'd be given a serious opportunity to make
detective. If he could crack the case, it was a total guarantee.
Several weeks earlier, Chuck went downtown to ask a couple
friends, one was a lieutenant detective, if they would give him
permission to tap the phones in his home. His brother-in-law
was getting out of the joint and maybe they could find out a
few things. The word would most likely come back officially
as a no. On his way home, he cranked up John Coltrane' s a
Love Supreme, while flying down the 110 freeway, he realized
that no one could stop him from recording any conversations
in his own home. He could drive out to the local Circuit Station,
buy some basic over the counter devices and wire the place up.
Chuck came from the generation that actually was offered shop
classes in junior high school. He had taken both wood shop and
electric classes, so, setting up the whole thing was not a big deal.
He wired the entire guest house in three hours and did it all for
less than what it would have cost to tune up the station wagon.
He couldn't tell Louis Sr. or Celia , they wouldn't understand.
It was his job. He knew that if they ever wanted to take another
vacation together, he'd have to make detective. Three days later,
Junior got out of prison and Chuck drove down to Ma Fritters
to get breakfast and check in with his father-in-law Louis Senior.
They talked about how to deal with Junior's Coming Home party.
'Are you heading back to the office ?' asked the waitress, ' Yep.'
Afterward, while driving back, he thought, ' Not for long babe. '
They Call it The City of Angels
A New Serial Novel by Joshua A. TRILIEGI
Exclusively for Readers of BUREAU of ARTS and CULTURE and
our Three sites in Los Angeles, San Francisco and New York City
All National & International Copy Rights Reserved to the Author
Chapter Seven: Charles
When the bus hit Charles' bags, his cart had lodged underneath
the front tire and saved his life. Although it tossed him several
yards, no bones were broken, no internal bleeding, just a few
road rashes and most likely, a concussion. When he finally
came to, there he was, sleeping in an actual bed with clean
cotton sheets and two pillows, the first time in several years.
He hadn't been in a hospital since Mickey was born. His
first thought was, "I gotta get out of here." , then he realized
that none of his possessions were anywhere to be seen. Where
were his clothes , his personal belongings, his savings ? Most
likely, he was going to have to answer some questions to the
man. Another thing he hadn't done in years. If they had gone
through his things, they would have found his dog tags and
maybe even contacted his family. Another thing he hadn't
done in the past few years. Damn, what had he done in the
past few years? Time had drifted through his life like a river
through the mountains or like wind through a tree. Drifted.
This was nothing compared to the many times he had to lay
down his Harley because of some god awful drivers not checking
their blind side, pulling out of the driveway without looking or
simply not paying attention to others on the road. He had to
lay his bike down at least a half a dozen times because of
other peoples stupidity. Being a biker in Southern California
was no easy task in the nineteen seventies. After losing a handful
of friends to total idiots, someone's wife started a campaign to
help Bikers who had been wronged on the roads and highways.
She ended up creating some kind of legislation and took it all
the way to the high courts. Charles admired her tenacity, but
that was not his style, he couldn't stand any of that legal stuff.
He was a simple man, enjoyed nature, food and a simple bottle
of wine. Those were the three things he had been able to partake
in for the past few years, come to think of it, that was all he had
done lately. He lived in the wilds of the coastline, drank a good
bottle or two of dago red a day and ate well, for a beachcomber.
No one ever suspected that he carried thousands of dollar bills.
When he opted out of all the side dealings that went on in his
world, his partners were glad to pay him out and let him go.
Charles had been getting too old for the game and although
he had respect, it was a young man's game now. He retired.
When Mickey picked up the phone and the voice on the other
end of the line simply stated, "This is the Venice Beach Police
department." He figured, it was either something to do with
his Mother's new boyfriend, the serial numbers on a recent
bike sale or some kids breaking into the shop. When they said
Mickey's father was in the hospital & they needed to reach
someone in the family, his ears began to ring, his heart beat
doubled and he broke into a sweat. They explained what had
happened and asked if he could come down to the station before
visiting the hospital. They had some of his possessions and also
had a few questions to ask. Mickey said he'd be right there. He
himself had more than a few questions to ask. Hadn't seen the
old man in almost a decade. Had thought he was dead. Now
he's about to have a family reunion in the very same hospital
where he was born. There was no way he was going to call his
mother, sister or Moon. It was something he had to do alone.
When he got to the station, two detectives sat at a table with
his Dad's four remaining bundles of cash in front of them.
Through the years, Mickey himself had been in and out of this
particular police station. Sometimes to bail out friends, other
times to sleep one off, after a fight, but this was the first time
he had been summoned to ask questions about anyone else and
actually showed up. He had never gotten involved in anyone
else's business nor did he want others involved in his: the biker
code of conduct. A long list of unwritten ways of living life.
This was a pedestrian Q & A. "When was the last time you
saw your Father?" , "What do you know about his business
partners ?" , "Why is your Dad carrying over thirty thousand
dollars in cash ?" Mickey didn't know anything and wouldn't
have said, even if he did. He was simply glad to know that
Charles was still alive and if they didn't mind, he wanted to
talk to him in person. The detectives expressed their concern
regarding the release of Charles from the hospital with all this
currency. They thought it best to contact a family member.
Mickey new better, but he played along, thanked them and
said he'd meet them at the hospital in thirty minutes time.
That gave him just enough time to call Moon, he had tried to
handle this on his own, but decided he needed to talk to her.
Called her at the bookstore from the phone booth in the
hallway and without explanation, "My Dad's alive. I'm
going to see him. I don't know what to expect. He's in
the hospital. I'll call you later. As soon as I know what's
what." Moon was in the middle of selling five old paper
back books to a couple on vacation from Europe. There
wasn't much she could say, "Wait a minute. What ?"
Mickey realized this was a mistake, "I'll call you back."
Moon was a stickler for details and in this case, he had
none to offer. When he got to the hospital room, Charles
had just finished telling a story and the two detectives were
laughing out loud. That's the way it always was. Charles
had a way with people, especially men of the blue collar
variety. "Hey Mick, How the hell are you ? Mickey just
shook his head slowly as a long, slow, single teardrop fell
onto his jean jacket vest's upper pocket and sat there before
hitting the linoleum tile and splashing into a miniature
Jackson Pollack like splatter that he stared at for a few
seconds. "I'm fine Dad, just fine. How the hell are you?"
They Call it The City of Angels
A New Serial Novel by Joshua A. TRILIEGI
Exclusively for Readers of BUREAU of ARTS and CULTURE and
our Three sites in Los Angeles, San Francisco and New York City
All National & International Copy Rights Reserved to the Author
Chapter Eight: Ryan
Ryan was a good kid. Aced his grades in school, held down
two jobs, was an excellent athlete, always the courteous type.
A throw back who held doors open for old ladies, was always
respectful to women, looked after his little brother, everyone
liked Ryan. He had known Josie since the third grade, they
had last names that started with the same letter, so, all
through grade school they sat next to each other. Back in
the seventies, public schools used an alphabetical system
for seating and year after year, they found themselves next
to one another. Ryan's mother came from the same country
as did Josie's parents, so whenever she complained about her
parents, he knew exactly what she was talking about. The so-
called generation gap loomed large between them and their
parents. Between the sexual revolution of the nineteen sixties
& the hang loose style of the nineteen seventies, many immigrants
had no idea that their new American children would leap forward
so quickly into the modern age. Ryan always told Josie to have
more patients with her parents, "They're coming from all whole
different world." Instead, she began to keep her inner world more
and more private.
When Josie & Junior split up, within days, she attached herself
to Ryan. He had always been there as a friend, someone she
could talk to, now she began to depend on him. Quickly, they
became an item. If Ryan went surfing, then Josie sat on the
shore, either studying, reading or just reflecting on life.
When Ryan was working on his car, Josie would hang out in
the garage, playing records and sometimes quizzing him on
an upcoming test at school. They were both, what some kids
called 'squares', they didn't attend ditching parties or smoke,
but they did go to concerts and dances and it was safe to say
that most of their friends would never have guessed that they
had a serious love life. Josie was a very passionate person.
Ryan was always very responsible, they talked about taking
their time and Josie always felt at ease. He had been saving
his money for a new wet-suit for the winter surfing season and
decided instead to by her a ring, it was getting serious. When
a group of students asked Ryan to run for class president, he
declined. It was safe to say, he was, in more ways then one,
the unofficial president of his class. Josie was glad he turned
it down. She was very much attached and although mature,
still didn't entirely understand her feelings. She was possessive
of Ryan, having someone of your own to a girl such as Josie
was everything, in her mind, he belonged to her and they
belonged together. They were one of those couples that just
about everyone figured would be together after graduation.
When Ryan found out that Louis Junior had been calling
Josie, he freaked. Although he was a surfer, he had plenty
of friends from the other side of town, where Junior lived.
One of his pals had written in his yearbook, 'To a cool punk,
for a surfer.' The divide between surfers and low riders was
wide back then. Not for everyone though, certainly not for
Ryan, who knew about all kinds of classic cars, sports, music.
He was a bit of a crossover, culturally speaking. On several
occasions he had helped guys with their car projects: chopped
tops, pin-striping, dual carbs and manifold installations. His
old man had been big on custom cars back in the day, even
won some awards and made a few bucks reselling fix ups.
Ryan's life did not involve the kind of built-in drama that
Juniors did. Juniors Uncles and Aunts were always coming
into town with one problem or another and his Mother tended
to let them stay longer than his father would have liked. This
created an uneasiness at home and always gave Junior an
excuse to get into trouble elsewhere. His old man was a dish
washer at the local cafe back then. Junior hated to see his
dad relegated to this position. As a young man Louis Senior
had studied to be an engineer and later ran an entire ware-
house with a dozen guys working under him. This was before
Junior was born, but it still put a thorn in his side at times.
To know that his old man had been passed by, just to be an
American and have a family here, seemed like a sacrifice.
Sometimes, Junior thought they would be better off going
back to where his grandparents were from and several times
he himself had done just that. Spent time on the farm, he
loved it. This was the side of Junior that Josie fell in love
with and it was also the thing that made Ryan jealous.
He himself had come from a good family, had been given
things,was considered upper middle class, never knew hunger.
He had no real drama to speak of, before Josie, he had never
even felt much of anything. Josie made him feel things,
he was suddenly vulnerable, jealous, passionate and even
angry. When Junior began to contact Josie again, Ryan
began to swim in a new sea of emotions that he figured
had everything to do with growing up, "This is what life is
about." He could hear his Dad say, in some imaginary scene.
That night was not at all unlike a film that occasionally played
on late night television. Ryan saw himself as the James Dean
character, if he backed down to Junior's challenge, he'd be
disgraced. Maybe Josie didn't know it, but she was the Natalie
Wood character and Louis Junior was well aware of his role in
all of this. He had always been the 'bad boy'. Had found it easier
to get attention by screwing up rather than doing good. Nobody
seemed to notice whenever he did something well, but if he ever
made a mistake, it was hell to pay. A family dynamic that had
been played out for generations and he was no exception. If the
boys had only gotten into a fist fight, everything might have been
better. Instead they settled things with machinery, in this case,
with their cars. Some of the guys Junior hung out with used
knives, bats and even pistols. He was old school, didn't believe
much in weaponry. Plus, he was a good fighter, he didn't have
to settle things like that. The whole thing happened spontaneously.
Ryan had promised Josie that he would avoid any altercations .
But when Junior pulled up at the stop light, only Ryan could
hear what he said and thats when it happened. The boys began
to rip down the boulevard, side by side, running red lights and
stop signs in a reckless abandon that teenagers are known to do.
By the time they got to the old bridge underpass, which crossed
the oldest rail road tracks in South Bay, just past the skating rink,
two kids in skates were crossing the street into the trailer parks
across the way. To avoid the kids, Ryan swerved to the left, hit the
curb at the curve and flipped his car into mid air, it tumbled several
times before the final landing, which crushed the entire cab taking
both their lives. Junior looked into his rear view mirror and saw
what he thought hell might look like. The bridge was like a giant
gateway, the fire, flames and smoke were all he could see. When
he looked again, he saw the two kids on skates and remembered
the first time he had ever seen Josie. He drove off and wasn't found
until the next day. By then, he too had been consumed by a sort of
fire. Sifting through the ashes in his mind was the single memory
of the only girl in the world who had ever looked him directly in
the eyes and simply said, "I Love You."
They Call it The City of Angels
A New Serial Novel by Joshua A. TRILIEGI
Exclusively for Readers of BUREAU of ARTS and CULTURE and
our Three sites in Los Angeles, San Francisco and New York City
All National & International Copy Rights Reserved to the Author
Chapter Nine: Wanda
Wanda was educated. She never suffered fools and had no
time for any man who was looking to fill her nights with
excitement only to leave her at breakfast alone, she told
Jordan the first day they met. That was fine by him, he had
learned to cook breakfast for himself early on in life. Could
make a great omelette, a mean cup of coffee and had even
learned to make french toast as good as anyone this side of
the Mississippi. He knew she was talking about much more
than food and he wanted more than a girlfriend too. Jordan
was a self confessed , 'Momma's boy without a mama' , so it
worked out fine. He had few friends in Los Angeles and no
relatives to speak of. The guys in the quartet had disbanded
a summer ago, when their main man went on tour with a
big band that had gone off to europe. He hadn't touched his
bass for a while and even stopped coaching b-ball at the park.
It was time to settle down and all the ingredients were there.
When they first started dating, it was always an all day thing.
A trip somewhere early, the beach, the museum, a ball game,
then a movie, a poetry reading, a walk in the hills, then dinner.
He often cooked at her place. Three course meals with special
sauces, exotic salads and always some freaky dessert. One of
the dudes in his band had also been a chef at a creole restaurant
& after gigs, all the cats would descend upon his pad with their
girlfriends, dates and such, Jordan picked up pointers quickly.
He was a sponge for good habits, a fast learner and wanted to
better himself. They moved in together and never looked back.
She looked at the clock and new something was up. Jordan was
never late, he was one of those bus drivers who prided himself
on being poignant. After a while his regulars began to appreciate
that fact. They could always depend on Jordan to keep his time
spots. One out of a dozen or so stops is considered a time spot,
it lets you know that your either ahead or behind the schedule
that thousands of people depended on to get to work, to school,
to the doctor, to church or to some event that was going to start
or finish wether his riders got there on time or not. He tried his
best to get them there. If you were going to do something in this
world, wether it was cook a meal, play a tune, shoot hoops or
drive a bus, Jordan thought you ought to do it well. And he did.
Wanda turned on the television to kill a little time and there on
the eight o'clock news was the lead story, all about the shutting
down of Pacific Coast Highway because of an accident between
a bus, a turtle and a pedestrian. She knew that was Jordan's
route, chances were one in four that he was the driver. News
shows were always talking about traffic in Los Angeles, then
they'd actually cut over to the man in the helicopter high above
the city. Wanda always thought that was a put on, as if they really
needed some dude in a helicopter actually talking on television.
She minored in journalism and knew very well that any on camera
announcer could handle the job, but L.A. was full of stuff like that.
Half of it didn't make any sense at all, a quarter of it was for show,
and the rest was for entertainments sake. It didn't leave much to
the imagination. That was partly why she dug Jordan so much, he
was real, fun to be with and was dependable. She didn't care if he
was muslim, baptist or hindu, for her, it was more about the man
rather than any one group, belief system or way of living life.
He finally walked in the door after the Ten O'Clock news hour,
he was a mess, had been questioned for several hours and had
a strange look in his eye. Wanda had never seen that look before.
They never had any secrets between them, but it sure felt like
they had one now. "You heard about it?" He pointed to the
television. "Dude standing right on the side of the highway,
nothing I could do. Some giant turtle crossing the road ?
Cops asking questions, highway patrol, local sheriffs, radio
reporters, some cats from the L.A. Times and all the heavies
from Transit Authority. They docked me for two weeks. Two
weeks while they investigate. Turns out the dude on the road
was connected to some old gangster stuff. One of my boys in
transit told me, off the record. probably gonna fire me. I
don't know what I'm gonna do." " You'll be fine. Come here."
She grabbed him and he pulled away, that was a first. In the
past, at times like this, she was Mama and he was the little
boy from Detroit with no one to look after him. Wanda figured
he was just shook up a bit. She never dared to think that he
was sitting on ten thousand dollars in hard cold cash and it
was making him sweat. If Jordan told her, she wouldn't even
come close to understanding. Now it was some gangsters money?
Why would some old bum on the highway be carrying that kind
of cash ? How could it have anything to do with mob stuff ?
Jordan had never been an avid reader, but he had started to
buy old paperbacks from a bookstore located in Venice beach,
not far from his break stop. He'd go in there and the girl
who worked there would suggest stuff. He had bought and
read Alex Haley's famous 'Autobiography of Malcolm X', on
her suggestion. "Did you know that he was a writer for
Playboy Magazine back in the day ?", she asked. " No I didn't."
She continued, " The Playboy magazine editors once sent Alex
Haley to interview the head of the klu klux klan, at his home
in the South. He went right up to the front door and interviewed
the guy. That takes guts, don't you think?" Jordan answered
"Yeah, that takes some doing don't it ?" They became friends,
whenever he'd break for lunch, she would have already pulled
a few books aside. Poetry by Maya Angelou, obscure art books
and early ephemera regarding L.A.'s african art scene in the
sixties, guys like Charles White. Wanda would come home
and there on the coffee table were books she had read in college.
She was proud to be with a man who had good taste in literature.
Jordan had once read a book by a dude named Chester Himes,
it was called, "Cotton Comes to Harlem" where some homeless
guy carts around a bunch of cash, with a bunch of gangsters
on his trail. Now, here he was, in the middle of a weird scene
out of a detective novel. He had become a character in a book.
His name and photo in the newspapers and on the radio. Damn.
They Call it The City of Angels
A New Serial Novel by Joshua A. TRILIEGI
Exclusively for Readers of BUREAU of ARTS and CULTURE and
our Three sites in Los Angeles, San Francisco and New York City
All National & International Copy Rights Reserved to the Author
Chapter Ten: Stan
Stan made decisions that effected other peoples lives.
He was well aware of his moral obligations and had
not been the only person in his family to become a
judge. There was a long history of legal professionals
who had created legislation, legal precedents, cooperation
between groups, unions, affiliates and social movements.
His first visit to the White House had included a lunch
engagement with a second Uncle, who had made it up
the legal ladder from lawyer, to cabinet member to
a supreme court justice, appointed in the nineteen sixties.
Back then, most of the people in his lineage were liberal
or at least democrats, but the tide had turned and now,
most were republican or conservatives. Though, it was
hard to find anything being conserved lately. Ever since
Cliff was born, Stan had become numb to world affairs.
Even a bit ambivalent towards party politics. He had
settled down late in the game and having a kid was
Dora's idea. She was considerably younger than him.
They had lived together for several years before marrying,
heaven forbid they make the same mistakes their parents
had. He was an extremely cautious man, not the type to
jump into anything, even as a child, his parents noticed
that he had a wisdom beyond his years, sometimes had
more common sense than many of their adult friends.
When Cliff began to lag behind the other kids in class,
they figured out rather quickly that he had disabilities.
Dora immediately began looking for reasons why this
could have happened. She handled cases where pesticides
had effected children's health, chemical companies had
been negligent in their social responsibilities, building
codes had allowed asbestos to be exposed, local energy
companies had polluted the water, electrical wires hung
to close to housing tracts and even the local government
had sprayed DDT, which had entered the blood stream
of unsuspecting residents. And of course, fluoride scandals.
She started with their diet. Where had the restaurants they
frequented prior to Cliff's birth purchased their meat ?
What kind of cultivation had the vegetable growers used
at the local grocery store? What type of soap had she used
to wash their clothes ? Everything and everyone had become
suspect for inspection. Although this never led to any final
discoveries, it did become a transformative period. From
that point on, they lived entirely different lives. Dora began
to buy her produce directly from local farmers. She wanted
to know exactly who grew it, how they grew it and where
they grew it. She became extremely aware of artificial colors,
flavors, dyes, man made fabrics, fillers, additives, and all the
rest of it. Stan sometimes felt responsible for Cliffs health.
He had been a smoker in his youth, was older than Dora,
thought maybe it was his fault. Though she never did blame
him for anything. They couldn't find anything in their family
history and eventually concluded that this was just something
that happens. But deep down inside, Dora never quite finished
her inspection, it was an ongoing situation that at any time
just might reveal itself. She began to specialize in cases where
large companies had been responsible for damaging individuals.
Dora was becoming a sort of social hero, whereas Stan was
posited in direct opposition to her newfound community post.
He was about to preside on a case that would make the Palm
Trees burning throughout the city seem like a cigarette burn.
Most people thought that a jury was mostly responsible for
the final decisions made in courtrooms. But those on the
inside, lawyers, investigators, court appointees, even bailiffs,
cops and sheriffs all knew very well that the judge had as
much to do with final outcomes as the case itself. What
information was admissible, how a witness was to be
questioned, when evidence was so-called valid and any
number of opportunities could either be allowed or objected
to, in one way or another, it often came down to the judges
decision. Time was always a factor. Another element that
often flew directly over the public's knowledge, was all of
the inner connectedness of the legal system. For instance,
Dora and Stan's connection. When they had just begun to
date, there were times when she had brought cases into
his court room. No one knew that they were involved.
In fact, he never would have fallen in love with Dora if
he hadn't witnessed what a brilliant lawyer she was. For
a man like Stan, love was much more than attraction,
beauty, sex, for him it was about a mutual respect, and
to have that, he needed to appreciate the skills involved,
Dora had it all. So when things got serious, Dora knew it
was either step down or leave yourself open to a series of
conflict of interest cases. She opened her private practice
as a consultant and they moved in together. But they were
the exception, all throughout the court system, relationships
such as theirs existed, someone's sister might be married to
a cop, who was a regular witness in another guys courtroom,
who happened to be from the same church as the sister.
Elsewhere, lawyers, secretaries, highway patrol, detectives
and others had often been connected in some precarious
situation where the fine line between justice and injustice
was difficult to decipher. No one person was to blame, it
was just a part of the system. Humans got to know the people
they worked with, they got involved & they favored their own.
But in a city as large and diverse as Los Angeles, this was a
dangerous game with lives in the balance. Your life maybe.
Stan was responsible for putting away a good number of
hardened criminals. So many, in fact, that it was difficult
to even keep track. For the protection of Judges like Stan,
the court system began to track the releases of certain
criminals, so they could avoid retaliations which had been
on the rise in the past few years. Some guy who may have
lost his entire family, his home, his self respect, his youth
and even his position and power within a larger group might
simply come out, retaliate and go right back into the system
for the rest of his life. So, on a monthly basis, judges were
now given a file to read, some read it, others didn't bother.
Although Stan seldom bothered to review his monthly file,
when he found the startling portrait of a familiar face in
Cliff's bedroom, the next day, he read the recent releases.
Sure enough, a man he had convicted in a high profile case
had been released and Cliff's portrait was spot on correct.
It was a manslaughter case in which the prosecuting lawyer
had decided to try the teenage man as an adult, that was
the first red flag. The second was proof of malicious intent
to kill. The convicted man had told a fellow worker that he
wished a certain guy would get into an accident. They were
able to prove that he not only intended to, but was actually
the cause of the accident. The third count, he fled from the
scene. This was used as a divisive way to influence the jury
that the defendant was not only guilty, but also a coward
who didn't even stop or attempt to help his victims. There
was no way in the world that the kid could have ever helped
them out of the car prior to the explosions, it all had
happened on impact. Had the boy been able to speak on
his own behalf, he might have had a fighting chance, but
the entire event had sent him into shock, he lost it, had
nothing to say in his own defense and was easily tossed
away for more years than he had even been on the planet.
Which meant that he had now spent over half of his waking
life inside the prison system. An all white jury sent the
teenage boy far and away. Stan noticed a letter in his in-
box, opened it & realized it was an official communication
from the officer and witness involved in the case, requesting
to wiretap the recently released criminal under a special
circumstances situation. Usually, this type of thing seemed
almost routine, but for some reason Stan got a terrible
feeling about all of it. He granted the request. What a life.
They Call it The City of Angels
A New Serial Novel by Joshua A. TRILIEGI
Exclusively for Readers of BUREAU of ARTS and CULTURE and
our Three sites in Los Angeles, San Francisco and New York City
All National & International Copy Rights Reserved to the Author
Chapter Eleven: Louis Junior
The day you get out of the joint, they bring you into a room,
and bust out a bag of things that were in your possession
the day you got arrested. Fifteen plus years was a long time.
He didn't even recognize the things they pulled out of the
bag, kids stuff, some cash, they keys to his car, the key to
his Mom's old house, a leather belt with his name inlaid, a
pack of smokes, they didn't even make that brand anymore.
A wallet with a velcro strap along the top, inside it, a picture
of his car, his mom and a school picture I.D. card of Josie.
He look at the wallet and tossed it back in the bag. 'F*%#'.
He walked outside and was waiting for a feeling of relief,
some moment of freedom, but nothing happened. He looked
at the sky and for the first time in a decade, he felt safe
enough to cry, so he did. That was his freedom, the ability
to show his feelings and not care who saw him. Junior had
built up his armor, he was untouchable, nobody could get to
him. He had been tested at every level. He'd been betrayed,
robbed, beat up, stabbed, lied to, yelled at, locked in the hole,
stripped naked, reprimanded, punished & poisoned, but he
had passed every test that came his was. He learned about
loyalty, strength, inner silence, concentration, focus and to
some degree friendship. During the first few years, people
entered and left, that was difficult. He later realized that
the only people worth getting to know were those who were
doing as much time or more than you were. They'd always
be there. You had to bond with someone dependable. Not
that you could ever really depend on someone, but, having
a connection in the kitchen or laundry or yard helped out.
Most of the stuff couldn't even be understood by anyone on
the outside. He had become an animal in a human zoo. It
took him a couple hours to get use to the fact that no one
was watching him, no doors were shutting in front of and
or, behind him. It didn't matter what time it was anymore.
He had lived a life of clockwork bells, alarms, shouts and
announcements on a p.a. system from the nineteen thirties.
It was hard to fathom that he could do whatever he pleased.
Louis Junior had not been the first or only member of his
family to do time. Many of his Uncles and cousins had done
a few years, here and there. But nobody had ever spent more
than a decade. The first day in prison, he remembered a story
that his uncle Ray had told him about spending time in prison.
"The first guy who even looks at you sideways, or calls you out,
no matter what color, no matter how big, no matter how crazy,
no matter if he's a prisoner or a guard, no matter what, you
have to beat the living s+*t out of the guy, no matter what."
So that's what he did. It worked, everyone left him alone, for
a while. He eventually gave his mom permission to sell the car
when she needed some money, as long as she promised to send
him a few bucks every now and then. A guy needed things and
you had to pay someone else sometimes just to get by. Years
past where he wouldn't even hear from anyone on the outside.
Not even his dad, after Juniors Mom had a stroke, things
were hard for Louis Senior, when he recovered, they began
to write each other regularly and junior would find that the
old man had deposited a few dollars in his account. Which
meant he could buy paper, stamps, a candy bar, this type of
thing. Junior had been someone who really, really loved women.
He had always loved his Grandmother, his Aunts, his Mom &
of course Josie. During his stretch in the joint, it was the worst
thing in the world to not spend time with a woman or a girl.
All those years deprived of the basic and simple touch of a
woman's hand, the sound of her voice, the smell of her clothes.
Junior built up a world in his mind that was like a television
show or a film or movie that he could repeat over and over:
" The Summer of Junior and Josie" . Not unlike one he saw
in school during a social studies class, the teacher wheeled
out a television and everyone watched a show that had
been produced for boston public television, he never forgot
it, it was called, "James at Sixteen", where this kid is trying
to get through life and he's in love with this girl. One night,
they steal away and spend the night together out in the wild.
He and Josie had done that, they'd gone swimming, they'd
gone to see The Shylites, they'd seen Fernando pitch for the
Dodgers, they even went to a freaky punk rock concert at
a burnt out church in Hermosa beach one night. So, in his
mind, he just relived it all, night after night, day after day,
month after month, year after year. It was like a regular
show with different episodes, a mix between "Chico and the
Man", "The Partridge Family" and "James at Sixteen".
That was how he survived it all. There were about a dozen
or so episodes & he just watched them over and over again.
Of course there was that tragic last episode & unfortunately,
he was forced to watch that one just as many times as the rest.
The one thing he realized right away was the fact that he had
no friends, knew nobody and nobody really knew him. Alone.
He had his dad, but that was not very solid. He had his sister
and now she had three girls, but all they had heard of him
was probably tainted. People feared ex-prisoners, mistrusted
them, were suspicious and often blamed them for whatever
went wrong in their lives. He had heard a thousand different
stories through the years about guys returning home and coming
right back due to some family member who dropped a dime
because something had gone wrong, a valuable item had been
misplaced or any number of things. He promised himself that
he would never, ever go back, no way, no how, no, no, no.
So as soon as he hit the street he headed straight over to the
outreach where he had been receiving letters from a priest.
it took him half the day to get over there by bus and the other
half to get back down to the harbor where his Dad, sister and
little nieces lived. The priest had explained that they needed
guys like Junior. Everything on the streets of Los Angeles was
changing. There had been a truce between several rival gangs
and guys like Junior had a place in the church. "All right
Father", he had said. " We have work for you, come back and
see me tomorrow morning, we have a lot of work to do."
The Father gave him five dollars for bus fair home, they shook
hands and junior walked back out into the street, a bit blinded
by the light. he'd been living in dark grey hallways and closed
quarters for years now, all this sunlight and open sky was new.
He wasn't ready to see his old man and hadn't seen the old
neighborhood where they had grown up, so he made it a point
to check it out. When he got there, the house was gone, in fact
the entire block was gone, it had been razed by the city and
nothing at all had been built on it, just a chain link fence.
Then he remembered hearing about how the local chemical
factory had been polluting the fields directly behind their home
and had to pack it in. They bought out anyone who could prove
that they or their property had been damaged. They had never
even owned the property and by the time his mother found out
she had ddt in her blood a year had passed and it was too late
to collect. She had been visiting a sister in Texas when it all
went down, never even heard about until after the fact. "Mom",
he said out loud. He stared at the open field and look above him.
A red tailed hawk circled above his head, it landed on the only
tree left in the entire field and screeched at him three times.
The bus dropped him off in the harbor well after dark, he had
been given the address and knew it was blocks away from
where his Mother was buried. His old man had written that
he would walk to her grave all the time. When he found their
house, it was fully lit. A big old house out of an old movie.
He could see the table set for dinner through the windows
and what must have been his nieces bicycles and toys splayed
across the front yard. Music could be heard from the house
next door and then he saw his sister Celia in a white cotton
dress and what must have been her new husband, bringing
food from the kitchen into the living room. The house glowed
with a picturesque energy that looked like something he couldn't
relate to. It was almost too perfect to the point where it seemed
fake to him. He became scared that maybe he would say the
wrong thing. What did he have to talk about ? He realized all
of this was happening too soon, he wasn't ready for this at all.
He walked back down the street toward the waterfront and stared
at the water for the next few hours. When it got past midnight,
he strolled back up the hill, opened the front gate and found a
yard chair under the tree in the backyard. He didn't really sleep
anymore, so he just rested, looked at the stars and wondered what
he would do with his life. After all the planning and scheming to
stay alive and out of trouble while inside, Junior hadn't had much
time to plan what to do when he finally got out. Well, he had his
appointment with the Father tomorrow morning, guess he'd
just take it one day at a time, as those dudes in the program say.
He couldn't help it, just like clockwork, he decided to watch an
episode from "The Summer of Junior and Josie". The one where
she cant stop laughing at his stupid jokes and they end up asleep
in each others arms. When Junior awoke , it was morning, his new
brother-in-law handed him a cup of coffee, he looked familiar.
They Call it The City of Angels
A New Serial Novel by Joshua A. TRILIEGI
Exclusively for Readers of BUREAU of ARTS and CULTURE and
our Three sites in Los Angeles, San Francisco and New York City
All National & International Copy Rights Reserved to the Author
Chapter Twelve: Moon
Moon was once a lifeguard. Her older sister had been a forester
and later joined the peace corp. They were a Venice Beach family
from as far back as the late 1950's. Moon was what they now call
old school, she baked pies, mixed her own essential oils, her special
patchouli, sandalwood, mint and lemon with a touch of rosemary,
was especially popular. She sewed quilts, grew her own tomatoes,
and occasionally imbibed a few herbs, but only for ceremonial
purposes. One late Summer or was it early Fall ? Moon had been
working the coast as a junior lifeguard, she was still in high school
when a giant swell hit the Southern California beach side. It was
strange to have such big waves so early in the season, tourists, locals,
amateurs and professional wave riders all came out to try their luck.
Every registered junior lifeguard was called in to watch the beaches.
Already several kids had drowned along the coast. From Swami's surf
spot down South, to the County line up North, there were reports of
near drownings, accidents of all sorts. Moon had only been working
officially a few weeks when the waves hit Venice Beach. She knew
the locals were not going to sit this one out, swells in Venice were
gigantic. Boards were being split in half by the pylons along the
piers most notorious break. It was not unusual to see even the
most seasoned locals washed up along the shore with a wound of
some sort. Some of these boys considered it a right of passage.
One of them would soon become her most intimate companion.
Mickey was not the best surfer in his crew, in fact he was most
likely the worst. But he had guts. No one could judge him on
style or bravery, he just needed a few more seasons in the water.
Having been more of a so-called, grease monkey, rather than a
beach bum, delayed his experience as a kid. While his dad was
still around, he could always be found just about two or three
yards from wherever and or whatever the old man was doing.
Usually, fixing someone's Harley. These were not regular motor
cycles, per se, these were incredibly complicated Rube Goldberg
type contraptions that just happened to also be vehicles. Were
talking about choppers with chrome beyond chrome, candy coated
paint jobs with more coats of varnish than anyone could imagine.
These were complete works of art. Upon inspection, it was hard to
believe anyone actually rode the things. There were a good number
of bikers who actually parked their bikes, inside the house. That
was how important a man's bike was in his life. If their wives or
girl friends ever got jealous of anything, it was seldom another
woman. Time, money, care, pride, attention, all seemed to be
focused on the ride. When Mickey's old man disappeared, he
started hanging out with the older surfers in his neighborhood,
gravitated towards the older brother types, most of them had
been surfing since childhood, many had even started shaping
their own boards and some had gone professional, suffice it to
say, he had some great teachers. But every man rides the waves
alone, having a good teacher only got you so far, in the same way
that having your bike tuned by another man only meant that if it
broke down out on the highway, you might not know how to get
it home yourself. The day Mickey paddled out on eight foot waves
with ten foot swells, none of his pals could teach him the lesson only
mother nature could provide. He dropped in on a wave that was so
powerful, so beautifully shaped, so massive, that it gave him the
ride of his life. People were shouting from the coastline, tourists
took pictures and locals were in awe. And then, he had to pay the
piper, hadn't gaged his exit properly, just by a few seconds too
many, like cinderella, boom, way past midnight pal. The wave
picked him up, about six feet mid-air, swiftly and without warning
slammed his body into the grey sea, he might has well have been
dropped from a roof onto concrete. That was just the beginning,
from there, he was thrust under water, hit the bottom, bounced
back up to the surface and back down again. And then, as if being
spit from the mouth of giant, he was thrust upon the shore, like an
octopus might shoot out the remains of a recent meal. Onlookers
gasped, he was, as they say in the movies, dead in the water. Moon
was the first person to reach him. She lifted his arms, cleared his
breathing canal, pumped his chest three times, and for the first time
in her life, began to push the life force from her body into another
human being. Alternating the three point pressure pushes on
his chest with the air in his lungs, for all of twelve minutes, she
had been taught well. Mickey coughed up a half a gallon of salt
water before coming back to full awareness. Looking up to see
what appeared to be an angel of some sort. He was overcome with
a strange mixture of fear and thankfulness. He reached up like a
child might reach out of a crib, wrapped his arms around Moons
waist and cried. He cried just like a new born baby. She joined him.
Some years later, Mickey would claim that he did the whole
thing on purpose, just to meet her, some of his pals believed
him, but Moon knew better. He had almost died on the beach
that day and she was well aware of his appreciation. Not just
for his actual life, but for all of the other things she was. Moon
was the type of person who completes a man. Respected by
women and admired by men. A lot of people fell for her.
Mickey's family had never been able to deal with the girls he
had dated in the past. But, to his Grandmother, Moon was a
homemaker. To his Mother, Moon was loyal and trustworthy.
To his little sister, Moon was supportive, caring and didn't
judge her for being such a tomboy. She fit right into their
family. The only thing she had to give up was being a lifeguard.
Mickey became extremely insecure. He thought that maybe
everyone who she might save would have the same reaction
he did and begged her to quit. She eventually, a Summer
and a half later, granted his immature request, on one
condition, they move in together. She moved in with him
and together, they looked after his grandmother. Mickey's
Mom was often on tour with bands during those early years.
So Moon and Mickey were like parents to his little sister.
Grandma added a bit of old world spice to the mix. She
was the original rebel. Grandma had opened one of the
first and longest running bookstores in the beach area.
Moon started working there part time and slowly began
to manage the place. It was one of those historical literary
spots where all the beat poets had read their work. There
were two literary institutes in Venice beach, Beyond Baroque
and their store. European writers, New York writers, San
Francisco writers, Chicago writers, all had done readings
there through the years. From Henry Miller to Arthur Miller,
it was a great place to buy a book and had a long standing
tradition with edgy, respected authors of all sorts. Moon
became a familiar fixture. She was the go - to - Gal.
When the phone rang, Moon answered it, she had been ringing
up a couple from Europe who had heard about the bookstore
from their hometown of Paris France. There had been a poster
in the window of a bookstore up the street from their apartment
called Shakespeare and Company. The two stores were like sisters.
They shared an equal history and created an unofficial exchange
program. Moon didn't know what to think of Mickey's quick and
deliberate statement that his dad was alive and he would call her
back later. She had never met the old man and wondered what it
would do to Mickey. For years, that was all he talked about. His
old man this, his old man that. She packed up the couples five
vintage paperback novels and hoped he'd call back. All of the
stories she had heard through the years about Mickey's infamous
dad began to sift through her mind. She knew that everything
was about to change. The entire life they had built up together.
Moon got the sense that a new storm was about to hit the beach,
she could only hope that Mickey wouldn't paddle out the way he
tended to do when things got crazy. How many times could she
save him ? When she got home that night Mickey and the old
man sat at their table in their kitchen. Talk about Shakespeare
and company. Moon got the sense that a king had returned and
a prince was handing back his crown. She didn't like it one bit.
" Moon, this is my father." His Old man looked up, smiled and
said, with his trademarked sarcasm, "The Son and the Moon ?
Now all I need are the stars and I'm good to go." He took a shot.
Moon tilted her head and quietly stared like a cat might look at
a Sparrow. She smiled & poured herself a shot, " Heres to you."
They Call it The City of Angels
A New Serial Novel by Joshua A. TRILIEGI
Exclusively for Readers of BUREAU of ARTS and CULTURE and
our Three sites in Los Angeles, San Francisco and New York City
All National & International Copy Rights Reserved to the Author
Chapter Thirteen: Fred
Fred was not his real name, but like a lot of immigrants,
he had wanted to represent America, by becoming a real
American and so, he started going by Fred. You know,
like Fred McMurray, he would say to people. He knew
three different guys from his region who had taken the
name Sam. You know, like Uncle Sam, they would say.
Mostly unaware that not everyone in America in the late
sixties & early nineteen seventies related very much to
either Fred McMurray from the television show, 'My
Three Sons' or Uncle Sam, who had just sent thousands
of young men to their deaths in Vietnam. But, these new
immigrants had to believe in America, and they did.
Many bought property, businesses, and encouraged their
first born to join the armed forces. Fred and one of his
partners from back home had invested in a liquor store
located in the center of Los Angeles. When they first
purchased it, they had both been working in the local
factories in the day, and by night, they held jobs as
security guards. Full time all day, part time all night,
for about a decade. Finally, they bought the store, put
up a big neon sign, Fred & Sam's Neighborhood Market.
Since the initial purchase the neighborhood had changed.
Los Angeles had grown into the proverbial melting pot
that is always talked about in Sociology classes at big
universities. In the old days, its was New York or Chicago
that was often used as the example of a new America, now
it was Los Angeles and Fred was happy to be a part of it.
That was until Sam had a heart attack and Fred was left to
not only run the store full time, which meant he often had
to pull all nighters, but also keep the books, order the product
and find a way to either, buy out his dead partners in-laws,
who knew nothing about the store or business in general or
continue to cut them checks. He was in a quandary and more
and more the relationship between he and his wife became
strained. Losing Josie was the beginning of a chasm that
only deepened in time. On somedays, they worked in tandem.
When Fred got word that Louis Junior was to be released
from prison, he started thinking of ways to deal with it.
Imagined the worst things he had ever imagined, that he
would like to run him over, shoot him, stuff like that. It
was terrible, he knew it. The boy had been locked up for
years and had paid his debt to society and still Fred was
unable to forgive. Every thing he had ever been taught,
philosophically speaking, had been thrown out the window.
He just couldn't get over it and it began to gnaw at him.
The liquor store was situated in a part of Los Angeles
that bordered three different groups of people and within
those three groups, there were sometimes factions between
the groups themselves. There might be three rival territories
for one particular group. Which meant his customers were
sometimes clashing over issues he had no knowledge of.
For instance, The Strolling 40's might come into the store
at say, 1:30 AM before closing, to buy a case of Cold Duck
for a Ladies Night party that just wouldn't quit. Well, if it
just so happened that some dudes from the 12th Street crew
were looking to buy a pack of blunts and a tall sixer of Malt
Liquor, 'Don't let the smooth taste fool you' , the advertising
stated just above the register, with a half naked woman who
had probably been paid less than a months rent to bare her
body for the sale of this fine, cold beverage, than, there might
be a problem. One night, just before closing, a Chevy Impala,
full of locals, rear ended a group of kids in a VW, while one
of them was exiting from the back seat through the drivers
side door. The VW was thrust forward and the door slammed
shut while the kids arm was still in its path, so he was standing
outside the car, but his shoulder was pinned between the window
and the door jam. No matter what they did, the door wouldn't
open up. The kid is screaming, the dudes in the chevy don't want
to stick around to meet the man, and all this is happening in
Fred's parking lot. What could he do about it ? Nothing.
These incidents became more and more frequent and he
became well schooled in the ways of street life in L.A.
He had left his country to get away from things like this
and here he was in the middle of a territory not at all unlike
the very place he was brought up in. Killings in his region
were rampant, there had been fields of dead bodies eventually
discovered. Sometimes he would get home and have nothing
to say, just plain numb from the day, didn't even want his wife
to know about what was going on out there in the world.
Eventually, he was forced to buy bullet proof glass, cameras
and a permit to buy a gun. Then he had to learn how to shoot.
On Saturday mornings, from eight to ten in the morning, he
went to a local shooting range and slowly began to meet some
of the local cops. When he told them where his store was located,
they started to fill him in on a few inside tips. Fred learned
about 'sweep days', certain days of the month when local
cops scrutinized certain areas. He learned about quotas,
and which days would be especially, what they called on the
streets, ' HOT '. Fred had heard his customers talking about
these things through the years, but it was like a code he
didn't understand, now he was in on it. Fred was wising up.
Through the years, Fred would be forced to call the police.
He knew there was a code and yet there were times when
he absolutely had no choice but 'call the man'. He had met
a bunch of these guys in the parking lot of his store in the
early days and later would see them at the shooting range.
Fred and Chuck became friends outside of their official
business and realized that they both had things in common.
Namely: Louis Junior. It was a high profile case, Chuck
was a witness, but Fred had been in shock, he didn't really
remember the faces of his lawyer, his judge or even Chuck.
The only face that stuck in his mind during that entire ordeal,
was that of his dead daughter, "Daddy", he could hear her say.
There was nothing comparable to losing a child to Fred. He
had lost a piece of himself. That child, to him, was his Mother,
his Grandmother, all the women in his family, it was his
future and all of it had been taken away, over nothing at all.
Fred called Chuck at his home office the week before Louis
Junior was released. He thanked him for the good work he
had done and expressed that maybe they should talk some
time soon. When Chuck got the message, he remembered
the scene that night, thought about his own daughters and
realized that no matter what, he still had to follow through.
Chuck got in his car, drove downtown & requested a wiretap.
He couldn't go directly to a judge, but he went to his pals at
the division and they put forward a formal request. On the
way back home , he exited the 110 freeway and walked into
Fred and Sam's Neighborhood market, he was in plainclothes,
" I got your message and don't worry, were working on it. "
Fred smiled for the first time in a few months, said nothing.
He didn't charge him for the soda pop either. A 'HOT' day.
They Call it The City of Angels
A New Serial Novel by Joshua A. TRILIEGI
Exclusively for Readers of BUREAU of ARTS and CULTURE and
our Three sites in Los Angeles, San Francisco and New York City
All National & International Copy Rights Reserved to the Author
Chapter Fourteen : Turtle
Turtles lived a long time. Ancient and modern Native
Americans know that some turtles live over a hundred
years. In fact, if circumstances allowed, just about any
living being could live an extraordinary amount of time.
Jordan had been given a set of brushes that was his
grandfathers from the early nineteen thirties. It came
in a black leather case that housed two or three brushes,
a glass container for some type of hair tonic, a stylized
scissors and a container that might have held a bar of
soap. He had never used the family heirloom and now
that he had some time off, he unpacked it. He decided
that this would be a safe place to put this newfound
package of dollars bills he had recently acquired.
When he opened the container for soap, what appeared
to be the oldest and largest daddy long legs spider ever,
peaked from out of the soap container. It was ancient
and had a vibe to it like no other animal of its kind.
It's eyes had lids and lashes, it's face, expressed some
kind of emotions: pain, regret, loss, just plain tired.
Jordan right away knew that this was a spider that
must have been living in the kit as far back as the
nineteen thirties, when his own granddad was just a
boy . He'd heard of things like this and immediately
and quite carefully put the spider back into the soap
case, zipped up the brush kit and as far as he was
concerned, that spider actually was his grandfather.
He didn't know what to do with himself, nor did he
make any decisions as to what he might do with
the money. He hadn't counted the bills but he did
peel back the brown paper, which, upon inspection
had lots of little designs and was broken up into
squares in perforated form, like a postage stamp.
They were hundred dollar bills, so he had to guess
that it was a hell of a lot of money. He got nervous
thinking about it. When the cops had showed up,
he had seen them scoop up the other packages
along with the guys other things, a bag of clothes,
a few blankets, they gathered everything into a
bag marked evidence which had been dated with
a black marker. When they tossed it in the trunk
he wondered if a guy like that would even miss it.
Since then, he had been talking to some of the
more experienced drivers about incidents such as
these and several had suggested that he ought to
get a lawyer. You could never be too careful.
Jordan figured that he could definitely afford one
if he needed to and wouldn't it be ironic that he
would be using the funds to protect himself from
the very dude who he might go to court with. But
that wasn't what the other drivers meant. They
were suggesting that he get a lawyer in case the
transit authority fired him. They might just use
this as an excuse to can him, even if it wasn't his
fault. He was already the odd man out. What
his fellow drivers didn't know was that Jordan
had gained a few franklins recently and didn't
really care about his job driving a bus. He had
become fixated on the turtle. He was tripping.
Jordan drove up the coast to where the accident
happened, pulled over and just sat there. He began
to study the landscape from every imaginable angle
and point of view, there was the derelict in the trailer
who pulled out without looking, there was the beach
comber, there was the turtle and of course his own
point of view. He'd been having some strange dreams
ever since the thing with the turtle happened. It all
had something to do with nature and his connection
or maybe disconnection with the elements, the basics.
Maybe he just had too much time on his hands. Or,
maybe it was the money. Either way, he was noticing
things that had never meant much in the past. Jordan
had never gone to the bookstore in Venice Beach
when he wasn't driving a bus, but for some reason,
he decided to head down there. They had a whole
section on native americans and animal medicine,
he bought a book on turtles. He had been experiencing
a recurring dream of swimming with a group of turtles,
but the image was from a whole other lifetime, it was
weird, you know how dreams can be, a whole other set
of rules.
Apparently, animals had been popping up all over
Los Angeles in strange and unexpected places.
There had been a coyote sighting in the middle
of downtown, a family of raccoons had been seen
swimming across a pool which had been built for
the nineteen-eighty-six olympic games, a rattle
snake on the streets of Westwood, these were not
your run of the mill animal sightings, something
was going on. What was the deal with that turtle
and where did it go ? As he was walking out of the
store, he noticed Moon getting off the back of a
motorcycle in the front of the store. This was
probably her boyfriend and he didn't want to
make a big deal out of anything, so he just
smiled and waved, but she jumped off the bike
and pulled him over to the edge of the street.
"Hey, I want you to meet my old man, Mickey."
Jordan was a little embarrassed but felt obliged,
" Mickey, this is one of our customers ..." He
extended his hand, looked into Mickey's eyes and
said, "The names Jordan, nice to meet you." But
he was thinking, 'Damn, that's the dude who was
on the bus that day.' Mickey recognized the face,
but didn't make the connection right away, "Nice
to meet ya." Mickey drove off thinking that maybe
they had met somewhere before. Jordan drove
off thinking that life was pretty weird and getting
weirder by the day. When he pulled up to the stop
sign, he looked down at the cover of the book and
noticed that the tile on the turtles back was the
exact same shape as the stop sign, it had eight
sides. Like a Pythagorus pattern he had admired.
Some of the ancient tiled patterns through the
centuries utilized the octagon as a sacred symbol.
He hadn't smoked anything for over a year, not
since the quartet disbanded, but he was beginning
to feel kinda, out there. He looked left, than right,
then left again, put his foot on the gas pedal and
thought about how machines had changed his life.
They Call it The City of Angels
A New Serial Novel by Joshua A. TRILIEGI
Exclusively for Readers of BUREAU of ARTS and CULTURE and
our Three sites in Los Angeles, San Francisco and New York City
All National & International Copy Rights Reserved to the Author
Chapter Fifteen: Dora
Dora worked for a very big firm, right out of
college. Their clients were large corporations,
food chains, car dealerships, hospitals, major
sports teams and entertainment personalities.
She would often be one of a dozen different
lawyers assigned to a case. They were extremely
powerful people who had ways of influencing
decisions that went far beyond what everyday
people could even comprehend. If her firm had
been defending a food chain for say food poison,
then they had the power to have articles placed
in newspapers, opinion pieces on the radio, even
news stories on how that particular company
was doing good community work and improving
its nutritional value or helping kids with polio or
donating funds to a particular recent tragedy.
She learned a lot about how things worked
and after five years, became so disgusted with
the firm, that she flat out quit. Dora had watched
hundreds of individuals cheated out of situations.
They had been poisoned, they had driven cars that
were ill equipped, they had been plagiarized, they
had been injured and still sent out to play the game,
they had been operated on the wrong bodily organ,
all sorts of situations where the individual was
wronged and her firm defended the large company.
She realized that after all she had learned in school,
she had been working on the wrong side, for the
wrong people. So she went back to school for three
years and came out a new human being. She had
learned in those first five years how the big boys
wielded their power and was ready to take them
on for the sake of the individual and she did.
Dora took on cases that involved most of the same
types of issues that she had worked on those first
five years, but now, she was working for the person
who had been wronged. When a football player
had been injured, an employee had been crippled,
a resident had been stricken with a disease which
had been prolonged by chemicals, she prosecuted
the big companies. She never spoke about cases in
public, was aware of illegal wiretaps, never met her
clients in public places, she had learned well. Dora
knew that there was nothing the large firms wouldn't
do to win a case. During the first five years she had
seen it all. Placing individuals at designated locations
to get information on a witness, getting the low down
on a certain assistant's personal habits and indeed
utilizing any technical device to further the source
of information for one side or the other, it was a
game of one-up-man-ship with no regard for the law.
At least not until the actual day in court, prior to
that day, anything was possible and just about every
one could be influenced, scared, cajoled, even bought.
As soon as she found out who was being sued in a
conversation with a new client, she would hold up her
hand and pass the victim a blank sheet of paper, as
if to say, 'Here, write it down for me.' She trusted
no one. That is why she won so many cases and
became well known for being extremely dedicated.
Even feared. She had friends in the universities,
forensic scientists, professionals who trusted her
opinion on wether the fight was worth it or not.
People knew that if Dora thought it was a worthy
cause than, it was indeed, a worthy cause.
When she got a call from a bus driver who said he
had recently been in an accident that was entirely
the other persons fault and feared he was actually
being fired for his religious beliefs, she met with
him. Sure enough, as soon as he mentioned the
Transit Authority, Dora raised her hand and passed
him a piece of paper with a pen. There had been a
series of cases involving the transit authority and
most of them had settled out of court. There was
even a current case involving a group of people
suing over the schedules not being met, a union
had been created among the actual riders and they
were seeking to keep the transit authority honest
about the hours in which they claimed to be servicing.
Dora knew that religion had become a point of
reference in not only the united states armed forces,
but also in many large companies, corporations
and even in schools. She had been raised believing
that church and state were a separate institute
all together. Dora had once been surprised, even
shocked to find a sculpture of Moses and the ten
commandments attached to the side of a courthouse
where she sometimes worked. After a few days of
investigation, she told Jordan that if indeed he was
fired, that she thought he may have a case. She was
not a trial lawyer anymore, but knew one who had
specialized in this rather successfully in the past.
The events he had sited in his casual deposition had
exposed a system of favoritism that was based on
affiliations and not on seniority or performance. She
wanted to know if some of his friends or fellow workers
would back him up. She called a friend who had tried
this type of thing in the past, some were race related,
others were systematic. They needed to get witnesses
who had been retired early for the same type of charge.
Witnesses who had nothing to lose by testifying for a
just cause. Dora put the word out among her circuit.
That night, after picking up Cliff , Dora and Stan
discussed how best to handle this recent event at
Cliff's school. They decided it was best to correct
the school and request a change of policy before
taking it any further. They liked the school, it was
close to home and her office. If the school were to
utilize trained employees with certifications during
outings, then they would not sue. Cliff had friends
there, they felt it was more important that they make
changes rather than waves and indeed they did. The
school swiftly rid the volunteers and hired three new
employees to handle the excursions. Dora was disgusted
that someone would do such a thing, who were these
people that would dress her child a certain way to send
a personal message to someone else ? Unfortunately,
one of the volunteers got a copy of the letter Dora had
drafted with her letterhead and the address of her office.
Not only was Dora about to find out what kind of person
does such a thing, she was about to find out just how
disgusting some people will go to attempt to make two
wrongs a right. There was a sickness in society and
Dora had always been someone who had worked to
heal that disease. She had been tested thousands of
times and had almost always achieved her goal, but
coming up against a vindictive ex volunteer would
soon prove to be more challenging than her previous
accomplishments. This particular volunteer was insane.
Dora put Cliff to bed and her and Stan shared a glass
of sherry as they had done customarily for many years.
He told her about the recent release of this kid he had
put away fifteen years ago, the boy had been Cliff's age
and had been tried as an adult. He was now having some
second thoughts about the whole case. Dora reminded him,
' Once the decision has been made, there is no turning back,
your a judge. Evidence is presented, a jury made a decision,
end of story.' He didn't want to tell her about the wiretap
request, so he simply let it go. He was good at that. He also
knew, deep down inside that the only places where stories
actually ended were in movies, plays and books. This was
real life, where the story never really ended, it just lingered.
They Call it The City of Angels
A New Serial Novel by Joshua A. TRILIEGI
Exclusively for Readers of BUREAU of ARTS and CULTURE and
our Three sites in Los Angeles, San Francisco and New York City
All National & International Copy Rights Reserved to the Author
Chapter Sixteen: Home
God had a lot of different definitions to a lot of
different people. Junior wasn't exactly sure if he
totally understood the concept of what god was.
He had seen how people who believed in god had
sometimes transformed themselves. He had been
accepted by a group of firm believers and felt a
certain amount of gratitude for being accepted.
Deep down inside, he still had some real doubts.
For the past two weeks, he had settled into his
new home, had been given a key, so he could
come and go as he pleased, but had no idea of
the kind of culture shock that pervaded his
every thought. That many years away, locked
up, had taken away his identity as a person.
He had become a unit within a machine and
was now searching for who he actually was.
Louis Senior had brought out boxes of old
family photographs that junior sifted through.
He rebuilt his existence by putting together a
sort of road map of his life before the accident.
He had taken a series of odd jobs, but none of
them seemed to fit. The priest had introduced
him to a social worker who gave him a bunch
of temporary job options, a program wherein
you could work for three days at various jobs
to see if you had the skills. He had tried his hand
at cleaning windows on skyscrapers downtown
with a crew of guys, but the height prove too
much for him. He spent a few days cleaning out
the public bathrooms all along the harbor, grunt
work that only reminded him of prison. He had
gutted fish in one of the last canneries that still
existed in the harbor, came home smelling of guts.
None of it meant anything to him, but he was thankful
for the opportunities and had, on several occasions
spent time in the church to show his gratitude.
The priest explained that, on some days, even he
had questions about faith that could not always
be answered directly. He would tell Junior that,
"It's an ongoing relationship, have patience my son."
Junior had seen a lot of different types of faiths,
while in the joint. There were all types of believers,
he was very interested in the native american dudes
who believed in the animals, let their hair grow long
and had ceremonies that allowed them to practice
their own belief system, they fasted, held prayer circles
and chanted during certain moon and sun phases. He
had also respected and became friends with a group
of Buddhists who shaved their heads, meditated and
had found a way to tolerate just about any type of abuse
that the system or other inmates could dish out. There
were plenty of Muslim's who had strict rules on what
to eat, when and how to bathe, what direction to pray.
Of course, he had plenty of friends who were down with
the Jesus thing and having been raised in that faith
himself, naturally gravitated toward it. Most of the
people in that circle believed that Jesus was the only
way, but somewhere in Juniors mind, he had built a
map that had more than one way to get home and he
quietly tolerated those who felt differently about it.
He had a common sense about him that allowed for
there to be a, 'constant maybe', to just about anything.
There were no guarantees in this world, that was clear.
One of the big boys had given him an address, that if,
in case of emergency, he could go to, for work. He had
done enough favors, cooperated enough with heavies
to gain their trust and respect. He had the address
memorized. It was the kind of work that no one actually
talks about, no applications to fill out, no supervisor
to report to, no waiting two weeks for your first check.
You were paid in advance and you did the job quickly.
It was the last thing he wanted to do. Since finding
out that his brother - in - law was a cop, he became
cautious about anything he said or did at all times.
he still hadn't put it together that Chuck was the cop
who had testified against him. Back then Chuck was
clean shaven, with a full set of hair, no glasses. Now,
Chuck was balding grey, with a mustache and specs.
Junior had come to admire what his sister had done,
built a family, bought a home, taken in their father
after his mother had passed away. His little nieces
were funny, sarcastic, nerdy, the way that kids can
sometimes be, they said stuff that had more truth
to it than some of the adults. He respected people
who told the truth more than those that put up a
front. Chuck and Celia had done something with
their lives, they had created a family. Junior was
almost positive that he would never do such a thing.
One day, while Chuck was at work, Celia and Junior
were having lunch in the main house, she ran out
front to catch the delivery driver who was just down
the street. Junior had walked down the hall towards
the bathroom and accidentally opened the door to
Chucks office which was normally locked. He entered
the room to find himself surrounded by a litany of facts
and graphs regarding the things going on the city.
Recent arrests, murders, rapes, drug busts and the
recent palm tree burnings that had pervaded L.A. with
news clippings, photographs and police reports. When
he looked at the top of Chucks desk he read a tear
sheet that had been faded and worn. It was a headline
that read, 'Local Teen Tried as Adult for Manslaughter'.
He had never even seen the paper the day he was
convicted, but there it was in plain sight. He looked
closer and studied the photographs, one of him, the
day of his arrest, one of the vehicle, a picture of
both Josie and Ryan from the high school yearbook
and a picture of a young Officer Chuck. 'MotherF*#@'.
He looked out the window which faced the guest house
and saw a cord that ran from the guest house roof
over to Chucks window and into a phone jack unit
that looked freshly installed, pieces of paint had been
scraped away, exposing wood slivers around the jack.
He closed the door and rushed to the dinner table
before Celia came back in with a big box containing
some dresses she had ordered for one of the girls
upcoming birthday party. He smiled and said he
had some work to do down at the church. It wasn't
a total lie, he had promised the father that he would
stop by and mow the lawn sometime in the next few
days. But instead, he got on a bus and headed for that
address he had been given. He was scared for the
first time since leaving prison and it wasn't the fear
of god.
Junior remembered a story he had been told long ago.
It was about the town where his people had come from.
Back when his grandfather had been a small child, there
had been a sort of Robin Hood, who was an outlaw, but
had protected his townspeople, had gotten rid of a local
merchant who had been abusing his power. When the
authorities came to arrest him, the people of the town
got together and decided to do what they could to assist.
From his window in the local jail, they would put on a
sort of show, 'Teatro de la Calle'. By wearing certain
costumes, affecting certain body types, they were able
to send him messages about what was really going on.
It didn't take him very long to learn how many days he
had left and where and how his fate was to be sealed.
It was an amazing effort how the citizens were able to
communicate in this way and he felt honored. He did
escape, but was eventually killed in cold blood. Since
that time, the system that had been created was still
in existence. Whenever there had been an injustice by
the authorities, the people had gathered to help inform,
in one way or another the Robin Hood's of the region.
Word got out and this way of communicating became
well known. It was exported and utilized throughout
the regions where oppressed peoples had little power.
Junior began to relate to that story and decided that
he had to tap into that same type of tradition. How
could they have not told him? His own father ? His
own Sister ? He felt betrayed and indeed, he had been.
He walked up to the house, checked the address again,
rang the bell, the door opened, he walked inside, the
door closed. 'Welcome back', a voice softly said. He
was finally home.
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