HELL OF A DEAL, a supernatural satire

Chapter Eleven

11

Down at the interrogation room in the North Hollywood police station, Alfred Smith Junior repeated his mantra. "I want a lawyer. I want a lawyer." With closed eyes, Al answered none of their many questions. He was perceived as obstinate and uncooperative.

The detectives sent Al down to a holding cell. There was no identification to confirm that the man was Al Smith, Junior, but nothing could prove that he wasn't who he said he was. The detectives decided that they could incarcerate Al for up to twenty-four hours and sort it all out by then.

They investigated Al's claim concerning an alleged reclusive health spa located somewhere in the Fiji Islands.

César, Al's new cellmate, had been arrested for selling cocaine to an undercover narc. César was Mexican-American and about Al's height, but he seemed much too intense and muscular for Al's liking. Al's eye slits managed to open enough to size up César. The cellmate wore a tattoo print shirt with a skull in a sombrero. His round biceps bulged, and he seemed nervous and jumpy.

Al shrank back toward his own cot, and he lay slowly down.

The guards strolled off and out of the holding cells. Al was left alone with his roommate.

César showed an immediate curiosity. After studying Al for a spell, he finally said, "What happened your face dude?"

Al thought a minute, in fear of César. Al had produced enough prison movies to gain some rough idea how he should express himself. He knew the sort of first impression that was desirable.

"The fucking cops," said Al.

César bobbed back amused. "Yeah? What you do?" He stepped closer in a roundabout arc.

Al tried to muster some attitude, and to keep his persona vague. "I didn't do nothing."

"Yo, me neither man. Fucking cops." César laughed.

Smith decided upon a particular story angle to tell his cellmate. He quickly worked out a personal history.

César continued to pry for the rest of the afternoon.

Al invented a new life story, some soap opera about a cold-hearted girlfriend, and he practiced his acting chops.

"You got kids, gringo?"

Al smiled. "Yeah, a daughter."

"Daughter? Hmm. How old?"

"Forty."

César took offense. "What the fuck?"

"I mean! Fourteen." Al's flow petered out. He forgot the latest cover story.

"Teenage chicks are fuckin' loca. My cousins, in high school, got right into the bad shit, man. You better keep an eye on her."

"Tell me about it."

César rambled about his family. "My cousin Louisa, she never did drugs her whole life, just a kid. One day, she hooks up with these new amigas in the cafeteria. She's fuckin' coked out, dressed like a slut. She gets pregnant."

"Just like that."

"Overnight, homes. Vida loca."

"Yeah. What can you do?" Al closed his eyes, and he tried to rest his head.

"I busted a cap in her dealer, who was the baby daddy. Blasted that fool."

"No. Don't tell me that. I don't want to know." Al curled up on his cot defensively.

"Straight up, gringuito. Disrespected mi familia. Splattered that fool's brains. Es what you gotta do in east L.A."

"Okay, okay. So uh. What do you do for a living? Regular job?"