WHERE THE F IS ZEKE

"What are you talking about? We can't go see him. We don't know where the fuck he is," Flattop replied.

"He's in the hospital, we know that much. We just have to figure out which hospital," I said.

"We can't just call around, he's in shadow. They're not gonna know who he is. They'll treat him, sure, but they don't have him on the books. He's just like a homeless guy to them, someone they know they're not gonna get any money out of. Another gangbanger with a gunshot wound. We're not gonna find him," Flattop said.

I couldn't accept that. There was no way Zeke was just going to disappear. Even if he made it out of the hospital without us finding him, I was fairly certain he'd come looking for us. Or me anyway. We needed to find him first.

"No, I've got an idea. Do you want to drive or should I?" I asked.

That was a stupid question. Five minutes later we were in Flattop's Javelin and cruising. Never ask a Wheelman if he'd rather you drive. The answer was always going to be no.

"Why the hell are we going to the movie theater? It's not even going to be open, it's hella early," Flattop complained.

He turned on the radio, and the muted sounds of a death metal radio station filled the cavernous interior of the Javelin. It was kind of a surprise, but Flattop was an unusual guy.

"It's open," I replied, mostly sure that it was. I couldn't check Google Maps, but in LA I had gone to the morning shows at this theater many times.

"And as to why we are going, it's because that's where I shot Zeke."

"So what? You think he's in a hospital near there? There's a few, we can check them," Flattop said, glancing over and then returning his gaze to the road.

It was interesting watching him drive. He was always watching all the traffic around him and never getting distracted for more than an instant. I wondered if that was because of his profession or if it was the other way around. Was he a Wheelman because he'd been a good driver, or vice versa? In any case, the ride was smooth, fast, and without drama. I liked it.

"Yeah, we could do that if what I have in mind first doesn't work out," I said.

He raised his eyebrows at me but didn't protest. "So what then? Hospitals nearby first?"

"No, theater first."

The trip was shorter than I thought, and before I knew it we were pulling up into the parking lot outside the Cineplex. I wasn't dressed like a weed clown this time so I was hoping the security guards wouldn't recognize me. If they did this might be a bit more exciting of a trip than I wanted. As it was, I wanted it to be quick and drama-free.

"Okay, we're here, you ready to tell me the plan yet?" Flattop said, a little irritation in his voice.

"It's real simple, we're going to talk to the security here and see where Zeke got sent."

"You going to talk to the rent-a-cops? You don't think they're going to recognize you from the last time?"

"No, I look a bit different. We'll see anyway."

"You want me to sit out here with the engine running?" he asked.

I couldn't imagine any scenario where I'd come running out of the theater and need a quick getaway. Not to say that couldn't happen, but if it did, things had already gone completely tits up.

"No, come in with me and watch my back, would ya?"

"You know it, homie. Let's go."

We piled out of the AMX, and were in the early morning California sun. The black leather interior of the Javelin had started to heat up, and now outside of the car, it felt a bit chilly. California weather.

Luckily for me, the cinema was open, and had been for a little while. We'd missed the first showings, and the second showings of a few movies were starting in about 40 minutes, but we weren't here to watch a movie anyway. It only took a moment to spot one of the uniformed security guards standing off along one wall, his hand on his shoulder-mounted microphone as he eyed the two of us entering the cinema.

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"Let me go talk to this guy," I said.

Flattop just nodded, looking at the giant wall of movie posters inside the lobby.

The guard wasn't the same guard that I had a run-in with last time. He was short, a little fat, and was glaring at me with suspicious eyes as I approached him. His pale skin made it look like he never got out into the sun, and his thinning brown hair was going bald. I quickly ID'd him.

Darren Simmons, Mall Cop (F1)

"Can I help you, sir?" he asked, a bit of bite in his tone.

"Yeah, there was a shooting here not that long ago. I want to know what happened to the victim, can you tell me what hospital they took him to? I'll make it worth your while," I said.

He opened his mouth and then stopped himself before speaking in a loud voice.

"Fucking gangbangers, get the hell out of here. Come on, let's go," he shouted, and I could see the ticket sellers in the nearby windows heard him and perked up, paying attention.

He grabbed my shoulder and started to push me towards the door.

"Fine, fine, I'm going," I said, turning and brushing his hand off my shoulder. He walked closely behind me until we got nearer to Flattop, who was looking on with a smirk.

"Get the hell out of here, don't come back," Darren said, his voice raised as he pointed outside.

"Smoking door behind the theater, 15 minutes," he added, his voice pitched to carry to only the two of us.

He continued to point and taking the hint, the two of us left.

Flattop raised his eyebrow at me. "Thought you struck out there, but that's promising."

"I guess he doesn't want to be seen talking to us. Probably bad for his job."

A quick scout in the Javelin around the building and we found what Darren had been referring to, an unmarked door in the back of the building with a lot of cigarette butts on the sidewalk and parking lot nearby. Flattop pulled into the spot directly in front of the door, and we settled in to wait. When the door opened, not that much later, I was unsurprised to see it was Darren.

He pushed a garbage can from inside to hold the door open and then walked a few feet away before lighting a smoke. Flattop and I climbed out of the Javelin to approach him.

"Let's make it quick, I've only got a five-minute smoke break. You want to know what happened to your friend, let's see the cash," Darren said, getting right to business.

I pulled out my roll and peeled off a couple hundred, holding it out to him. He took a deep draw of his smoke and didn't reach out for the cash. Another hundred joined it and finally he decided that was probably enough and took the money, tucking it into his front pocket.

"Okay, if your buddy hadn't been a gangbanger, just a civilian, they would have taken him to St. Francis Memorial, right nearby. But since he was in shadow and this was a gang thing, they don't bring the gangers to that hospital. It'll be Our Lady of Mercy instead."

"Our Lady, that's nowhere near here," Flattop said.

"I don't make the rules, I just know that's where they take the gangbangers when they get into shit around here. They've got a secure floor, he'll be on that."

"Why?" I asked.

"I know why," Flattop said with a disgusted expression. "The cops are sweating him, hoping to get him to admit guilt, or get him on some charge, before they have to release him. It's bullshit, unconstitutional bullshit."

"You're right there, but you want to bang, that's what you get. All part of the game, isn't that right?" Darren said with a smirk.

"Fuck you, Darren," Flattop said. "It's people like you that make this city so shitty, you hypocritical motherfucker."

"Hey, I'm doing my job, not shooting people, or robbing them," he replied, straightening up and flicking his cigarette away as he squared up to Flattop.

"Hey, cut it out. We've got what we need, let's go. Thank you, Darren," I replied, stepping between the two of them.

"Yeah, bye," Darren said, standing there while I moved Flattop away, putting some distance between the two of them.

Flattop continued to eyeball Darren until they got about 12 feet apart, and then the two of them, as if by mutual agreement, turned away from each other, Darren returning to the cinema and Flattop to the Javelin.

"What the fuck was that about?" I asked, as soon as the cinema door closed with a solid thunk.

"I just hate people like that. Fucking bent-ass security guard giving me shit about being in the game. Fuck that guy, homie."

I couldn't help but agree, although I didn't feel as strongly about it as Flattop. I simply nodded.

"Okay, so we go to Our Lady then. That's where Zeke is," I said.

"Weren't you listening, he's on the secure floor. That means that the doors are locked and guarded by police. He's basically in a prison, until they release him. It's bullshit, man. Totally unconstitutional," Flattop said, raging a little bit.

"If the doctors can get in there and the nurses can get in there, that means we can get in there. We can figure it out," I said.

"Then what? Let's say you're standing beside Zeke's bed right now. You're the one that shot him. He's doped up a bit, what do you say to him to get him to tell you what you want? I still don't know how this works. Come on, you made the plan, you tell me," Flattop said.

I had made the plan, and I had thought of this. I didn't have a foolproof answer, but I'd gone down the same logical paths that Flattop had in that instant, and the plausible options had closed one by one. Zeke being under guard didn't change much.

"He won't tell us anything in the hospital. He won't have to, and he won't want to. That means one thing, and one thing only. We have to get him out of the hospital, and then, we make him an offer he can't refuse."