Crooked Out of Compton by Ron L. Dowell

Author:Ron L. Dowell [DOWELL, RON L.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781960018373
Publisher: Running Wild Press

The best information yet about Trenese came from a hooker after nearly getting my ass kicked by women. I’d fucked a few whores when Ella was on her period, more since she passed when I couldn’t sleep. Occasionally, I’d even brought one home. To me, I was discreet and quick. She’s an old friend; I lied to Trenese if she happened to run into one of them.

Right before she disappeared, Trenese called me a hypocrite. She must’ve guessed the truth. I was stupid to bring a hooker home when I’d been so hard on my granddaughter. I tried to make sure she didn’t turn into one. I had to find her, apologize, and make things right.

The Hub Motel was down the street. Roi said there’d been a significant sting operation there last month. The dull gray stucco motel was “C” shaped, one story, with a long, one-car driveway connected to Bowen on the east. The courtyard where we stood hid us from the street.

“If Trenese got sliced up,” I said, my fist clenched, “I’m killing somebody.”

Roi looked hard at me. “Don’t act crazy again. Your temper is what almost got you stabbed back there.”

We poked around in a sparse open room, which smelled of nuclear bleached-over piss and years of embedded smoke stank. A rock-firm queen-sized bed, a small table, a faded wilderness painting above a wood-product headboard, and two chairs in a corner completed the jungle habitat. Only pimps, whores, johns, and police would know about the Hub Motel hellhole. Had Trenese fallen this far? She’d be glad to get back home to her bed. My mouth went dry.

Roi entered the bathroom. I walked outside, lit the cigarette, and waited in the courtyard parking lot.

A black and white sheriff’s cruiser braked in the narrow driveway.

“STOP THERE,” someone yelled from inside the car.

Two deputies jumped out, hands on their holsters, their engine running. My legs weakened; a pain rushed through my chest.

“Show your hands—turn around and place them on the hood,” said one cop before he whirled me around, kicked my legs apart, frisked my ankles and groin, and massaged my balls.

“Owww!” I snatched my palms from the hot hood. “What the fuck—” The cop leaped on my back and choked my neck. “I can’t breathe.” My knee popped; legs buckled. When my eyes opened, I lay on my stomach, panting for air like underwater, hands cuffed so tight behind me that my fingers lost feeling. My neck hurt like hell. Bifocals bent across my face.

I took quick, whistled breaths. I shifted my body to breathe freer and craned a look at Gonzalez’s uniform nameplate, the cop who’d grabbed me. He glowered over me: my Metro ID and the picture of Trenese in his hand.

“What’d I do?” My sweaty jersey mixed with motor oil.

Hansen, the other nameplate, squatted and moved cautiously, hands shaking, his gun barrel two feet from my face. A Viking image inked his tanned, muscled forearm.

I was tough but would be no match for these two, not prone, not at this stage in my life.

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