He tried to force her into the driver’s seat but she turned, defiant.
“Benji, this is not going to help you.”
I shuddered, tensed like a fever grip, almost stepped from the shadows, but he pressed the gun against her.
“Get in the fucking car, Cinnamon.”
My pulse was whamming, eyes doing wide-awake REM as he gunned her into the Wagoneer—
Blind panic—as they pulled out and turned south.
I cut the corner, running through puddles straight for the Jetta and hit the ignition—catch-up time.
Next stop: Steam World.
Flash torrents came down now as I chased the Wagoneer through the city shrouded in gray. Afternoon was becoming night faster than anybody wanted or could handle. They hit the southbound on-ramp, sending back a fast wave of gutter water, and I followed, craning to keep tabs, they were maybe eight cars ahead. Then we hit the spiderweb that is Friday 6:00 p.m. rush hour 101/110/10, crawling around the downtown cyclone—I almost lost them.
Around Union Station they made for the exit, and I had to practically cut off a big rig to stay on their tail, but a traffic cop held me back, and I was blocked. They tore off and I slammed the steering wheel in a rage. Lights changed and I peeled out, rain-skidded, cutting the red light. I was way behind. By the time I pulled up to Steam World, the Wagoneer was parked out front. I parked on the lit side of the street, clutched the 9-millimeter in my pocket, ducked under the awning, and was about to bang on the front door, then thought better of it. I slipped around the back, rain streaming through the parking lot streetlamps.
The big metal door was up but the lights were out.
He was on to me, he’d set a trap—and she was in there, he had her.
41
“Appelfeld.” I stood at the mouth of the warehouse. “Come out and talk to me. Please…leave her alone, we don’t need to do anything stupid.”
Nothing but the sound of rain beating on aluminum, making fast rivers down the ridges.
“Turn on the lights,” I said. “We should talk.”
No answer.
Nothing to do but duck inside—pitch dark and meat locker cold. And I was drenched.
“Appelfeld,” I said to the emptiness, not shouting. “Jensen. I can help you. But you’ve got to let her go. And talk to me.”
My words echoed in dead space, but he was there, she was too, I could feel them.
“I can help you,” I said softer, walking backward to the center of the maze, where I fumbled for floodlights, gently bumped into a pole, steadied myself on it, clutching like I’d found the mast of a ship. But as I groped around, I realized I had no idea how to turn the thing on. My thumb felt a light switch—with a click a flood of green hit the models like a midnight nuclear flash.
“Appelfeld,” I said, squinting hard. “Talk to me.”
First, a muted scream, his hand over her mouth, then a shrill one—“Adam, move!”
A shot cracked from behind the statue of Hollywood Hills—it boomed through the metal room—I dove down behind a table, cocked my gun, another scream, something fell, she wrenched herself free, scrambled.
Flash of a moving body, his, then another shot, her muffled “No!”—I cringed then aimed for his leg, squeezed—with a blast the Hollywood sign exploded into a white plaster of Paris dust bomb.
I rolled up like a pill bug under the table, clocked his Hush Puppies in the distance, squeezed off another shot; the gun almost flew out of my hand and a lamp exploded, sent a flash of glass fireworks tumbling over mini-PCH, then he aimed sloppy, another shot cracked hitting a foothill six yards from me, shredding its innards, mesh wires and plaster twisted every whichway. He was no marksman this guy. Neither was I, but I was small enough to hide.
He spoke firmly through the green smoky haze.
“You come out, Zantz—you get me that record and I’ll let her live.”
I said, “Drop your gun first—and set her free.”
Maybe he saw me or maybe he flipped, but he took another shot, way wide of the mark, and that gave me the quarter second for better aim. I fired one right at the pair of jeans bent behind Hollywood and Vine and he flew back with a guttural yell, smashing into the Capitol Records building, grabbing for his folded knee, his gun flying somewhere into the rubble.
“Just keep your hands up,” I said loud and firm. “And I’ll come out to help you.”
As I crawled out from under the table on my knees, Cinnamon moved frantically, out of the shadows into the green light—she knelt over him. Over her shoulder, she said, “Put that gun down, Adam.”
“Cin, he’s crazy, he’s—”
“I said drop it!”
I placed the pistol gently on the plastic waters of Silver Lake, showed her my hands.
Hers were trembling as she tried to help Appelfeld up to a sitting position while he rocked and clutched at his leg.
“Benji,” she said, “we’re going to help you, we’re—”
“Don’t shoot me,” he blurted.
“I can’t shoot anyone,” she answered with a high-pitched mix of panic and pity.
Appelfeld moaned and said, “I gotta get me some bandages,” then Cinnamon looked up to me, and I moved to take off my hoodie, but in a crazed thrust, he yanked himself up using her shoulder, raging in the face, lunging for my gun off the fake Silver Lake as he threw his arm around her, clutching her like a wrestler.
