He was White. I am Black. I was fucked.

  “Look,” I said. “I didn’t do this. She’s a friend of mine. I work for her. I’m her drummer.”

  “Shut the fuck up. Get down on your knees and interlace your hands behind your head.” He took a half step closer. His trigger finger rested along the barrel, which was good news for me. But it wasn’t all good news; his hands still shook. I eased onto my knees as ordered.

  “All right, now lay facedown with your hands behind your back. And do it slow, asshole.”

  “I gotta undo my hands otherwise I’ll fall on my face,” I said.

  “Just fucking do it!”

  “What’s going on here, Officer?” A woman in her sixties asked from the hall behind the cop. He turned his head to her.

  “Ma’am, please return to your apartment.” Still shaking. “Please!”

  “Oh my god is that Trix? Is she…is she dead? Trix. No!” she screamed.

  I took that moment to lie on the floor, my hands behind my head. I then waited for the bullets that were sure to rip into my back. Instead, a knee was pressed into my lower lumbar and I was cuffed up.

  The uniform called for detectives, and then announced there was a DB in the apartment and he had a suspect in custody.

  The lone rookie did his best to corral the lookie-loo neighbors that gathered. What a sight it must have been.

  “That Black guy killed Trix,” one neighbor said to another.

  “I hope he gets the chair,” the neighbor responded.

  “Do we still have that in California?”

  “I dunno, let me Google.”

  I kept my face to the floor as the neighbors discussed my fate with the casualness of chatting about a Netflix show. I kept my mouth shut and waited it out. Twenty minutes later, a Detective Tanaka showed up. She was Japanese and wore her shoulder-length hair down.

  She cleared everyone out while we waited for the coroner to make the obvious declaration. More officers arrived and worked crowd control.

  I was taken outside.

  “Turn around,” the second uniformed cop commanded. He reached into my back pocket, pulled my wallet, and handed it to the detective. After emptying my front pockets, he shoved me into the back of his car where Detective Tanaka put the questions to me.

  The suspect.

  She sat up front with her body half-turned to me and spoke. “Okay, Mr. Crasher,” Tanaka began, “depending on how you answer my questions will determine whether we need to take you downtown or not.”

  Her smile was warmer than I’d expect from a cop. She must be the good cop.

  “Yes ma’am,” I said.

  “Where are you from, Lou?”

  “Vancouver B.C., Canada.”

  “Beautiful city.” She smiled. “Why would you leave?”

  “Chasing the rock ’n’ roll dream,” I said.

  She paused and looked at me as is if considering my response. But in actuality she was sweating me.

  “But that’s not all, is it, Mr. Crasher?”

  “I’m not sure what you’re—”

  “I’ve seen your name in the news,” she said. “I sure hope you’re not running around my city playing private detective without a license.”

  I shook my head. “I’m just a rocker who’s figured out a couple o’ riddles. I don’t do anything without license,” I said. “Not even poetic.” Unsure as to why I joked.

  She held my gaze awhile before speaking again. “I bet the groupies love that aw shucks musician’s bullshit, right there.” She flipped a page over in her notepad.

  With a sigh she said, “Okay, Lou, take me through it. What were you doing in an apartment with a dead body?”

  “I’m Trix’s drummer. For hire, I’m not the regular guy. We had a gig last night at the Social Distance Club off Melrose.”

  “I know it. Decent club. Band’s name?”

  With a quick clearing of the throat I said, “Cock Rocker.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Ya, see they have a muscled-up rooster for a logo and that way they can use the word ‘cock’ in their name.” I paused. “In a clever way, I suppose.”

  She gave me dead eyes.

  “Anyway, we were all set to rock but Trix doesn’t show. So, we pack up. The crowd gets real ornery, calling us losers and assholes, and finally half the band members want to quit the band. So, I told them I’d swing by her place tomorrow, which is today, and see what’s up.”

  “Anyone try calling her or texting last night?”

  “They all did.”

  “They, but not you,” she said as a statement.

  “Like I said, I’m the sub drummer. I let the band members call her,” I said. “Besides, three phones all were heading to the same location. I didn’t think I’d get a different result.”

  Officer Tanaka asked for each band member’s name. I didn’t see the harm in giving them up, especially since I was suspect number one at that moment.

  “What time was your set supposed to be?”

  “Eleven.”

  “Did you sound check?”

  “As far as I know they did in the afternoon,” I said.

  “They, but not you,” she repeated her earlier statement.

  “They weren’t paying for that.”

  She closed her notebook and slapped it on her knee two times while in thought, then reopened it.

  “You charge bands for sound checks?”

  “I most certainly do. Sound checks are usually a waste of time, and any soundman,” I said, “or soundwoman, worth her salt can get levels on the first tune.”

  She raised her eyebrows.

  “Officer Tanaka, would it be possible to take these cuffs off? Johnny-on-the-spot over there cranked ’em up kinda tight.”

  “In a moment,” she said. “What time did you arrive at the club?”

  “Nine. I unloaded and set up my kit in the parking lot. Then I hung with the other bands on the ticket and waited for our spot. We loaded on stage but, well, I told you the rest.”

  She jotted something down.

  “You’re going to run my story against time of death once the coroner gives it you, aren’t you?”

  She smiled. “Is that P.I. work, Mr. Crasher?”

  “I prefer it when you call me Lou, it sounds better.” I smiled back.

  “Wow,” she said. “You think with that smile and those pretty green eyes you can flirt your way out of this?”

  I kept up the Crasher smile, one of promises and possibilities.

  “Sorry, babe,” she said. “I play for the other team.”

  The car became deafeningly quiet. I tucked the smile away and waited for her next question.

  “How do you feel? I mean learning that your boss and friend is deceased?”

  “Busted up,” I said. “Trix was a good friend. Good people.”

  “I don’t need to tell you the kind of shit you’ll be in if you play P.I. on this.”

  “No, you don’t need to tell me.”

  She held my gaze a long moment. All of good cop had vanished from her face and what was left was no nonsense.

  “I’ll be in touch, Lou Crasher,” she said and climbed out of the vehicle. She spoke briefly with the uniform cop before heading toward the apartment building.

  “You’re free to go, Mr. Crasher,” the uniform said after opening the door. It felt good to get the cuffs off. A crowd had gathered behind police tape. I hauled out my phone and feigned writing a text, when in actuality I took pictures of the crowd. The killer might be in the mix. I hopped into my 1965 Mustang, aka the Ol’ Gal, and powered her up. As I was pulling away from the curb, Brian, Cock Rocker’s bass player, rolled up in his Acura. He jumped out of his ride and sprinted toward the police tape. The uniforms held him back. He hollered all kinds of unintelligible sounds and if my eyesight was on point, I think he was crying. I considered talking to him but decided against it when I noticed the press arriving.

  As I rolled past the scene, Detective Tanaka paused her conversation with another detective and turned her head my way. We held a long look as my ride rumbled by.

  Dang. That’s a deadly stare.

  Click here to learn more about Drums, Guns ’n’ Money by Jonathan J. Brown.

  Back to TOC

  Here is a preview from Double Exposure, a Grant and McNulty Thriller by Colin Campbell.

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  PART ONE

  SINGLE EXPOSURE

  “Sometimes the fact is the legend. Print either one and you get what’s real.”

  —Vince McNulty

  ONE

  THE UNIFORM COP didn’t realize he’d stepped into a nest of vipers until the first gunshot took his right leg away. The second shot got him in the chest but only knocked the wind out of him since his sergeant had reminded him to wear his body armor that morning. This was only his second shift on patrol, and he shouldn’t have been alone on the street, but his tutor was in Maple’s Donuts at the corner of Fifth and Main. The third shot ended his career before it began, hitting him just above the Kevlar vest and blowing out his trachea.

  All because the rookie was going to issue a ticket to the car parked in a no-waiting zone outside the Tres Cruces Western Fidelity Bank. That’s not where the gunshots came from though. The gunman was a silhouette against the early morning sun, like those Jap fighters that used to come out of twelve o’clock high, but that’s not what the kid was thinking. He just wished he’d gone in for a donut as well.

  THE SUN ROSE early over the small desert town and was already high in the clear blue sky by the time life spilled onto the streets. Sprinklers came on automatically to combat the dry heat and keep the lawns green. Stars and Stripes were run up numerous flagpoles, ranging from the main one in the town square to the angled poles outside almost every house. Kids got ready for school and parents got ready to take them. Main Street Bakery already smelled of fresh bread and Maple’s Donuts had served three cops and a firefighter who were kick-starting their day with a caffeine fix and a pastry before getting ready for the early shift. Horses in a nearby field were skittish, as if sensing the day wasn’t going to be smooth sailing.

  A veteran police sergeant read the morning briefing in a green-painted room next door to the radio despatch, the operator wondering who had decided that particular shade of green would be calming for the half-dozen cops sitting on hard wooden chairs. The sergeant reminded the rookie to wear his bulletproof vest, even though this was a quiet town. You never knew when there’d be trouble at the bakery. The radio operator called up the three patrol cars for any last reports that needed to be handed over to the day shift. Three cars. Six cops. That’s all it took to keep the peace in a town the size of Wal-Mart.

  Across the street from Maple’s Donuts an elderly woman with a blue rinse and horn-rimmed glasses came out of Tres Cruces Western Fidelity Bank and ran up the flag. Same as every other day in the high desert. Until the woman went back inside and a black-gloved hand grabbed her from behind.

  “ISN’T IT A bit early for a donut?”

  “What’s this, your second shift?”

  “It is.”

  “Well, get used to this. If the sun’s up it’s never too early for a donut.” The long-service medal glinted in the morning sun as the older cop looked at his young charge. “Is the sun up?”

  The rookie gave the same answer. “It is.”

  The veteran held his hands out, palms skyward. “I rest my case.” He went into Maple’s Donuts, giving the young cop one last piece of advice. “Keep your eyes peeled. You never know when there’ll be trouble at the bakery.” He and the shift sergeant being on the same page.

  The rookie let out a sigh and stood on the corner of Fifth and Main. Across the street the Stars and Stripes fluttered outside the bank. The lawn sprinklers had stopped but the damp grass glistened in the morning light. The sidewalk was already beginning to dry. He was watching steam rise off the lawn when the car pulled up at the curb, a rusty brown sedan that looked like it belonged in a ’70s action movie. Exhaust fumes pumped into the clean bright air. Nobody got out. The driver cranked down his window a couple of inches, tossed a cigarette onto the road, then cranked it back up.

  The rookie saw all sorts of violations, litter being the least of them. Illegal parking, dangerous rust pockets and a hole in the exhaust. Those fumes were polluting an otherwise beautiful day. He glanced at the donut shop and considered waiting for his tutor, but he remembered how to write a ticket.

  The engine rumbled and popped, a deep throaty roar each time the driver dabbed the accelerator. The rookie wondered about noise pollution but reckoned he already had enough to slap the driver with a hefty fine. He reached for his citation book and began to cross the street. He was halfway across when the bank doors burst open and the alarm sounded.

  The rookie was quick. He didn’t panic and he didn’t fumble. First thing he did was get on the radio and call it in. “Two-eleven in progress at Western Fidelity.”

  He kept it brief. Everyone knew where the bank was. All units knew to back up the first officer on the scene. The first officer on the scene was a rookie fresh out of the academy. Being fresh meant he was eager and fast. His hand went from the radio to his holster in one smooth movement, his eyes tracking the two men coming out of the bank while keeping the driver in his peripheral vision. He could already hear sirens from the other two patrol cars. The robbers were going to be boxed in before they reached the getaway car.

  Being fresh also meant he was naïve. He didn’t realize he’d stepped into a nest of vipers until the first gunshot took his right leg away. The second shot got him in the chest, but the Kevlar vest took most of the blow. The two men carrying canvas moneybags kept low and ducked behind the car. The driver revved the engine. It was the fourth man who was doing the shooting. He came around the side of the bank with the low sun at his back. The young cop dropped to one knee, still struggling to get his service weapon out of its holster. The gunman took careful aim just above the bulletproof vest and ended the rookie’s career.

  The veteran cop came out of Maple’s Donuts and fired twice. Not at the gunman but at the driver’s window. There would be no getaway without a getaway driver. The glass shattered and the shock jerked the driver’s foot on the gas pedal. The ’70s action movie car shot forward and knocked over a fire hydrant. Water gushed into the air and the two men with the bags dived for cover. The gunman fired across the street at the veteran cop, but adrenaline and distance were against him. This wasn’t shooting a rookie at point-blank range; this was returning fire under combat conditions. The veteran cop fired again to keep the gunman’s head down.

  The sirens grew louder. The alarm rang out across the street. Water soaked the sidewalk and created a rainbow in the morning sun. The Stars and Stripes fluttered in the breeze as if nothing unusual was happening. The horses in a nearby field bolted. There were gunshots and squealing tires. This was a long way from trouble at the bakery. Two patrol cars screeched around the corner, blue lights flashing. The veteran knelt behind his own unit and leveled his gun across the hood. The scene was set for the final act shootout. Everyone was in position when a voice shouted through the bullhorn.

  “Cut. Check the gate.”

  The tension went out of the scene. After a few moments the voice shouted again. “Close-up on the robbers. Reset.”

  Larry Unger stood next to his technical adviser outside Maple’s Donuts. The short dumpy movie producer looked pleased with himself. “You did good Vince. None of the cops walked like ducks.”

  Vince McNulty looked less than happy. The ex-cop didn’t like to see cops getting shot, even if it was just for Titanic Productions’ latest action movie. “Yeah, well, you never know how you’re going to move when the shit hits the fan.”

  Then the film crew reset the lights and camera for the close-ups.

  TWO

  TITANIC PRODUCTIONS WASN’T really filming on location in Tres Cruces; it was shooting on the outskirts of Corona, Riverside County, just east of Los Angeles. To be more specific Larry Unger had secured a deal with the Sherborn Movie Ranch to use its extensive grounds for six weeks before moving to rental studio space at a porn studio in Long Beach. The movie ranch, formerly FST Sand & Gravel, had been the location for numerous TV westerns back in the ’60s, before cop shows and private investigators took over. Somewhere up in the hills there was still a cowboy town they used for commercials and pony trekking. What had attracted Larry Unger was the small-town Main Street set, complete with town square, bank and donut shop.

  McNulty nodded at the donut shop. “You do know this whole cops and donuts thing is a fiction, right?”

  Larry looked at McNulty and let out a sigh. “Is this where you tell me that John Wayne Syndrome’s not about liking westerns?”

  “It’s not about being John Wayne, either. Since even John Wayne wasn’t John Wayne. But the donuts. That’s an American thing, not a cop thing.”

  Larry tilted his head as if talking to a child. “That’s the Englishman in you.”

  “Yorkshireman.”

  Larry ignored the interruption. “While we’re on the subject of John Wayne. You remember what they said at the end of that movie where he shot Liberty Valance?”

  McNulty knew where Larry was going with this but played along anyway. “Yeah. When the legend becomes fact, print the legend.”

  Larry accepted the prompt. “Well, the donuts thing is the legend.”