The coastal communities of Santa Monica, Marina Del Rey, and Playa Del Rey have been decimated. Wildfires are raging in Baldwin Hills, Malibu, and above Sherman Oaks. City Hall, the Griffith Park Observatory, the UCLA Medical Center, Dodger Stadium, the Santa Monica Pier, and Sleeping Beauty’s Castle are a few of the prominent structures that have crumbled. We’re hearing widespread reports of chemical spills and explosions, landslides, and bridge collapses. Underground gas lines have broken, fueling intense firestorms that have razed neighborhoods in Chatsworth, the Fairfax district, and Culver City.
Every freeway has sustained massive damage and most major streets are impassable, drastically impeding official rescue efforts, which are sporadic at best right now.
Los Angeles International Airport is on fire, its runways destroyed. Van Nuys Airport and Santa Monica Airport have also suffered severe damage.
The National Guard has been called in, but with virtually no way into the city, it could be days before they arrive in significant numbers.
We are on our own…”
Marty dropped the headset, his hand shaking. He was scared. There was no news about Calabasas, his home, but he didn’t take any relief in that. Calabasas wasn’t far from the epicenter of the quake and more than once had been threatened by fires that spread from Malibu canyon. Was their house destroyed? Was his wife about to be consumed by a raging wildfire?
“We spend the whole day out here, Mr. Cathburt and I, reading mostly,” the old lady was still talking. “It took Mr. Cathburt three weeks to read The Pelican Brief. I finished it in a weekend, but I’m not like most people. I like literary fiction.”
“You should go,” Marty got up quickly and went to her. “It isn’t safe here. The rest of this building could come down.”
“I have all the John Grisham books, if you’d like to borrow one. We could read here together, by the pond.”
The garden didn’t seem nearly so peaceful anymore. Now he could hear the flies buzzing over Mr. Cathburt, the wailing car alarms on the street, the thup-thup-thup of a helicopter in the distance, the tingle of bits of glass still falling to the ground.
“I have to go,” Marty told the old woman. “You should, too.”
“Where would I go?” she looked him in the eye. “I’ve lived here for forty-seven years. There is no where else. This is my garden.”
Marty nodded. “Is there anything I can do for you before I go?”
“Yes, please.” She slid the straps of her bathing suit off her shoulders and smiled coyly.
Oh God, no, Marty thought.
She handed him the bottle of Hawaiian Tropic. “I could use some suntan lotion on my back.”
Marty didn’t want to do it, but he was so relieved that was all she was asking, he quickly squirted some lotion on his hands, rubbed them together, and smoothed the cream on her shoulders. It felt like he was polishing a dashboard with Armor All.
“That feels so good,” she purred. “Your hands are very soft.”
“You shit in her bushes,” said a familiar voice, “that doesn’t mean you’ve got to fuck her.”
Marty turned and was stunned to see Buck leaning against the courtyard gate, shaking his head in disgust. Wasn’t there any way to escape this guy?
“To each his own, I suppose,” Buck shrugged and left.
“Thank you again for your help,” Marty hurriedly wiped his hands on his jacket, realizing too late that now he’d be carrying that coconut scent with him the rest of his journey. Then again, it beat the scent he’d been carrying so far.
“Come back and visit any time,” she smiled. “And keep your eyes open for the right script for me.”
He forced a smile in return, took the toilet paper, and left, closing the gate behind him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
B uck was waiting for him on the curb.
“Your running is improving,” Buck said. “It would be more impressive, however, if you didn’t shit yourself the minute you stopped.”
“Can we change the subject?” Marty started walking, stuffing the toilet paper into his pack as he went.
“Okay,” Buck fell into step beside him. “Let’s talk about breasts.”
“Let’s talk about why you’re following me.”
“If you weren’t so fucking full of yourself, asshole, you’d remember that I live in Hollywood. We happen to be going in the same direction.”
“There are at least a dozen different ways of getting to Hollywood.”
“Not if you want to avoid the giant fucking cloud of poison fucking gas. Besides, I’m getting to like you, Mark.”
“Martin. You won’t like me so much after I tell the police what you did.”
“I’m sure it will be a top priority for them.” Buck snorted.
“You were supposed to stay with the guy you shot.”
Buck grinned. “I’m with you now, aren’t I?”
“The other guy you shot.”
“Enrique and the black kid are with him. Turns out Enrique is one of those male nurses which, as we all know, means he’s an amateur proctologist in his spare time.”
Marty gave him a look, took the map out of his pack, and spread it on the hood of a car.
“What are you doing?” Buck asked.
“Trying to figure out where I am.”
“You’re a couple blocks away from Koreatown,” Buck said. “Keep heading west, and we’ll hit Western Boulevard.”
“How can you tell?” Marty glanced around for a street sign, finally spotting one lying on the ground.
“Because I live here, asshole. Don’t you ever look out the window when you drive?”
“I don’t drive here.” Marty studied the map for the street and discovered Buck was right. They were on the northern edge of Koreatown. It could be the safest stretch of his journey or the most dangerous, all because of another violent upheaval not so long ago.
In the early hours of the Rodney King riots, while news choppers hovered over the streets, scores of enraged blacks surged through Koreatown, looting, torching, and demolishing storefronts and mini-malls. It was an unstoppable tide of furious humanity and terrific TV.
Although the Koreans had nothing to do with the beating of Rodney or the acquittal of the officers involved, they were resented for opening their liquor stores, markets, and gas stations in black communities and not hiring blacks.
The besieged Koreans quickly armed themselves, gun-toting brigades patrolling the streets while others stood guard on the rooftops, cradling their carbines, watching and waiting for the invaders to return. But it was too late; the Koreans had already suffered nearly half the damage inflicted on the city during the riots.
Still, Marty was quick to see the series potential. Immediately after the riots, he developed a pilot entitled LA Seoul, about vigilante Koreans cleaning up the mean streets. It didn’t make the schedule, despite a last minute attempt to rework it for the Olsen twins. Instead, the network bought Cross-Eyed, a show about a born-again private eye taking cases from God.
The Koreans certainly hadn’t forgotten the riots and were probably back on the streets, armed against another incursion. Which meant the neighborhood might be safe from looters but teeming with trigger-happy vigilantes hostile to any strangers, even one who championed what could have been the first Korean cop show on primetime television.
Marty decided having Buck around might not be so bad after all, at least until he got to the Cahuenga Pass and was on his way into the valley. He folded up his map and stuck it in his inside jacket pocket.
“So, once we get to Hollywood, you’ll be home,” Marty said. “Right?”