The Tell-Tale Heart-Shaped Locket Thingie

As we patrol along Edenhurst, the early evening silence is unnerving. Not just to me, who'd lived in Atwater Village. The crew is on tenters, like they can hear echoes of what the street had once been, before everyone was relocated. Not just the families that built this neighborhood after the war, but even gentrifiers like me -- if moving from Frogtown to Toonerville is gentrification.

We move from Dover Street to Dover Place, no white cliffs in sight.

I take my shot. "Colonel Parsons, request permission to take a detour. I used to live around here, I'd like to check on my place, catch up later."

"Wanna see if it's been looted, O'Connell?" Parsons grits. "Or do some looting yourself?"

Parsons is a dick, and isn't really a colonel. He was service manager at a Toyota dealership in Valencia. But he likes me, so I know the edge in his voice means he's worried. Has he heard the treelines are hiding Injuns? Is he thinking I'll go native myself? I need to put him at ease.

"Sir, I’ll take Oz. She’ll make sure I don't do any crimes or dilly dally."

Oz shoots me a glance, taps the handle of her hunting knife. A nervous tic. Parsons scratches his chin, meaning I'm good, but he needs to make it seem like he’s pondering. The crew waits in the calm twilight. It's a cool November evening, 82 degrees. The streets feel beyond empty. Hollow, like bones without marrow. No one wants to linger, but Parsons is mum. A coyote howls, breaking the silence. Parsons takes that as his cue.

"All right. Take Oz and Regis, meet in an hour by that old Acapulco-looking place we passed." He pronounces it Ack-ah-pool-co, with a hillbilly snit. He's from Pacoima and grew up on street tacos and aguas frescas, like I did, but these days there's no payoff in honoring the language that gave us the name of the Free Territory of Los Angeles.

Oz rolls eyes at the idea of Regis coming. Unlike Oz and me, Regis is a true believer, but I know how to handle him.

"Thanks, Colonel," I say. "That was an Acapulco back in the day. Closed before the fall - last time I ate there it was a wood-fired pizza place. Still served tasty skinny margaritas."

"Wood-fired pizzas and skinny margs - get gone before I change my mind, fucking hipster."

"Of course, sir."

"Regis!" Parsons barks.

"Yes, sir."

"If either of them try anything, shoot Oz first."

"My pleasure, sir."

"Fucking psycho," mumbles Oz. I laugh, but Regis concerns me as well.

As we head South, I hear voices from the crew call to us, the twilight spell broken.

"Scratch up some weed!" cries one.

"Find some more pictures of your girl!" calls another, probably Twombley. Twombley has seen the snap I keep in my wallet. "Boudoir shots if you can!"

"He means booty shots, Nick!" That's Russell, confirming the previous voice as Twombley's. Russell’s seen pics of Alicia too. Like Twombley, his desire is clear. Peas in a pod, those two. I hate peas.

*****

We're in bed, at the Hotel Atwater in Avalon, picked for its name as well as its comforts. I spent four years running a camp at Buttonshell Beach five miles down Catalina Island’s coast. That's where I met Alicia - she came over as a director for a Weight Watchers weekend my third year there. Ended up staying until we headed mainland together a year later.

She's playing with her pendant, a heart-shaped locket I gave her for her birthday three months prior. Waves and the rocky shore of Buttonshell Beach etched into the gold face by my friend Annie, a glass blower and all-around artisan who accepts a challenge when one is offered. In the locket is a small version of the same picture I carry.

I take the locket between my fingers, pry it open. Close it quickly so she doesn't notice.

I shake it gently - "Sounds like something's rattling in there."

She snags it. "Let me see that." She gives it a shake, opens it. Her smile starts in her eyes, spreads across the face I want to gaze at forever. "About fucking time," as she pulls the slim claddagh ring from the locket and slides it onto her finger.

*****

"Jesus, Nick, where is this place? You made it sound like it was just around the corner." Oz is nervous, bitching just to bitch. I know she doesn't mind being away from the pack. Like me, she crewed up to suit her own purposes, which were simple enough. Safety in numbers. She told me horror stories about her time alone, before conscription. She might not like the crew, she might not get the crew, but she needs the crew and would admit that she appreciates the crew and what they provide. Even if it's at a cost to who she always thought herself to be.

For me it's even simpler. I joined up to get here. This is my third patrol crew, but the first to head into Atwater. My first crew dismantled cell towers in and around Glendale and Burbank. Next came a supply crew, “salvaging” from hardware and grocery stores in the same area. “Salvaging,” not looting, as we were all pretty white. That's where I met Oz. We’ve had each other’s backs since.

I heard about a crew patrolling neighborhoods along the LA River. My old stomping grounds. Safe passage home was all I needed, and now I'm here, a sheep in wolves' clothing. Looking for a hint on where to find Alicia. Where to find my girl. Get a hint, cut loose, that's the plan. Which is why Regis concerns me.

*****

We're at the protest. Peaceful as planned, ‘til the anti-antifascist Woodsmen show up. Big ol' wooden axe handles and chains like they're cosplaying Streets of Fire or something. Let the revels begin.

I'm not too worried about me - I'm no tough guy, but being 6'3 and built like a 1970's linebacker, I tend to get avoided in these situations. These choads pride themselves on how many women's noses they can bust open with their wood. Alicia’s tough as hell, but I like her nose, so I pull her close.

"Maybe we should get out of here, Lici," I say, knowing it's moot. She doesn't respond, just shoots me the ‘you sweet dumbass’ look I know so well.

*****

"You lived ‘round here?" Regis spits. He spits his words rather than speaks them, as if they can’t wait to get out of his mouth.

"Yeah, just around the corner now, for real."

"You like living around all those people?"

He doesn't say which people, but his meaning is obvious. Mexes. Browns. Injuns. The last scapegoats of American unexceptionalism. If it weren't so empty this would be ripe territory for him to whip out his revolver.

"I grew up down the river, a little rougher neighborhood than this. Didn't have a great time as a kid. Always liked Atwater, though. Plan on moving back when this is all over."

"This ain’t ever gonna be over. Not for us anyway." He's twitchy. Looking for a fight. I don't take the bait, don’t feed his fire. Honest and straightforward answers. Man of reason, that's me all over.

"All things must pass, my friend."

"Whatever." Regis pauses, something on his mind.

"O'Connell. Your girl. She's a brown, right?"

"Actually, she's a Vasquez."

"We've got a Vasquez Rocks out our way. Your girl any relation?"

"To the rocks? No, I don't think so."

Regis stops walking, tenses up. I silently curse myself for the slip. Even a light tease like that could set off someone as tightly wound as my pal Regis.

“So why go home now? You think anything’s left? These places were cleared months ago." Spit. Spit. Spit.

"We'll know soon enough." I gesture toward the two-bedroom bungalow Alicia and I bought from the original owners, her parents.

*****

We’re in a medical pop-up. I don’t remember getting here. "Nick, look at me, Baby - you're going to be okay." It's Alicia. I know her voice, can't make out her face. Tear gas mixed with the blood from my forehead did a number. Even after multiple rinses I can't focus. That ax handle got me good.

"I'm gonna go with Annie and Tomba" she says. "Things are more fucked than we knew. This was all a trap to get us centralized so that they could gut the neighborhoods, push people out. We're meeting up in Glassell to decide on next steps." Next steps. Like she's project managing this shit.

"Let me get cleaned up, I'm coming."

"Nick, you can't see. You're no good to me like this." Ouch.

"I'm okay, I just need to start moving again." I start to rise but my legs aren't having it. My head feels like an overfilled water balloon, one false move or needle poke and it'll pop.

"Baby, please. Get stitched. Get rest. Reina’ll take you home. I'll catch you up later, when you're mobile. I'm sure as shit not carrying you." She could if she wanted, though.

I give. “Call me later. Be safe. I love you."

"I will, Nicky. I love you." She takes my face in her hands, pulls my mouth towards hers for a kiss, which is good because I would have gone for her nose. In a second she's gone. When Reina tries to take me home later we can't get through. Atwater Village is part of the first wave. I start searching.

*****

The door opens without issue. Thank fuck for keyless entry. No need to bust a window, which would have been tough, them being boarded up. The house is dark and without electricity, but I have my maglight and Oz has hers. Regis, of course, whips out a zippo.

"What are we looking for and where do we look?" he spits, pushing past me into the small living room.

"I mostly want to make sure everything's okay. Might grab some books. You check the kitchen, there's probably some salvageable stuff in the pantry." I point the way.

“Bathroom?” Oz asks. “I wanna get some decent shampoo and body wash.” I show her, head to the master bedroom planning on rummaging through drawers, looking under pillows and mattresses for some clue to Alicia's path. There's no need. What I want is on the dresser, plain sight.

Of course Alicia gets that thieves would tear the place apart. Why bother hiding a message? I approach the dresser and pick up the heart locket, hear a creak at the door and freeze.

"I knew it." Regis has his sidearm out, pointed at the floor rather than my head, which surprises me. "What is that, a message? Hand it over."

"No chance."

He raises the gun. "I hoped you'd give me a rea-"

He shuts up when Oz stealths up behind him, drives her blade into his windpipe. Unlike in movies, Regis doesn't do a death dance or stand there in shock while his throat geysers a stream of red. He just drops, kicks his feet a couple times and is gone.

"Was he right? Is that a message?" I'm still staring at Regis, as Oz leans over his body and wipes her blade clean on his shirt.

"Yeah." After a beat, I shake the heart. It rattles. I open it. Inside is a claddagh ring, not slim and small like Lici's, but sized for a fat-fingered Irisher like me. I pop it on. It's a bit loose, but close enough. I feel myself grin. It’ll fit once a braver, newer new normal settles in.

"What’s it mean?" Oz is at my side now, looking at the etching. Looking at Buttonshell Beach.

"It's where she is. Where she was headed, anyway. Where I'm headed. You, too, if you want. New crew, new mission."

Oz looks at Regis, slumped down in the doorway. "New crew works for me.”

"Think you can hotwire a boat?"