Once again, I dreamt of elephants flattening a jungle canopy while my daughter Melyda trailed behind them across the clearing they created. When I jarred awake in the darkness, my new bride slept beside me and I remembered that we were honeymooning in the Movie Colony of Palm Springs at Las Palomas, the former desert home of Cary Grant. The chance to stay here was one of the many luxuries bestowed upon her because of her wealth. I had just begun my third marriage, this time to Aiyana Fleet, the pop superstar.
Later, when I woke again, it was still morning but the other side of the bed was empty and cold. Aiyana was up, in some other part of the house. I put on my Versace silk bathrobe and found her at the table in Cary Grant’s old kitchen, watching the local KESQ news on a small TV.
I turned on the Keurig and coffee poured into the mug with a poster from Penny Serenade on it. Then I popped open a cold bottle of G.H. Mumm and placed three strips of bacon on the cast iron skillet. As it heated, I looked out at the pool behind the house. There was the tortoiseshell cat I’d named Sismo, because of that earthquake on the first day I noticed him. Sismo ran along the back fence and jumped into the neighbor’s yard.
“See this?” Aiyana pointed at the TV.
Back in L.A., the police shooting of a twenty-one-year-old pregnant Latina in the parking lot of the Namaste Mart in Boyle Heights had received serious media attention. She’d been shoplifting alcohol. The bodycam footage had been released and the media was saying the responding officers had gone too far.
“She tried to run over one of the officers, didn’t she? To escape with the booze she’d stolen? An automobile is a serious weapon.”
“When you talk about the cop you want to be, you talk about de-escalation. Why couldn’t they have parked their car in front of hers before they confronted her, blocking her in? She’s a messed-up kid. I’ve done worse than her, and nobody’s going to shoot me.”
Aiyana’s team wasn’t around, not even her security. She was jumpy these days. Erratic.
“Maybe you’re right,” I said and drank my champagne.
For almost two decades Aiyana, had been victimized by a conservatorship conspiracy orchestrated by her family and a corrupt judge. At a time when my own future seemed uncertain, when I was in one of my jackpots, Aiyana hired me to free her by using my now infamous methods. We fell in love. After a quick wedding, she returned the favor and saved my ass by paying for me to bury my indiscretions and return in good standing to my role as the “celebrity detective” within the Robbery Homicide Division of the LAPD. When all the courses seemed corrected in my life, the elephants came.
Aiyana deserved to be let out of her conservatorship, but since our wedding, I’d gotten a taste of how frequent her breakdowns were. Now, the whole conservatorship conspiracy didn’t seem as thoroughly unjust to me as it used to. Last night when I returned late to Las Palomas, I saw her filming a video of herself pretending to cut her wrist with a meat cleaver. “It’s just a prop,” she said casually.
I’d been meditating a lot lately, taking my practice seriously. My partner in RHD, Joe Ancell, is a devoted Buddhist and has taught me a great deal. Meditation has made me see how I get myself out of problems. A big one, I now understood, is my proclivity to date and marry new women, thinking they’ll be the answer.
An unknown number called my cell.
“Yeah?”
“I’m in Palm Springs. Meet me at Billy Reed’s, nine tonight.”
***
I parked my Challenger and walked across the lot, passing the koi pond. Inside, the Tuesday night dance was wrapping up and all the spiffed-up old couples filed out to their cars. Anyone old enough to remember the Sinatra days of Palm Springs still ate here at Billy Reed’s. It was a cavernous space, but Eddie was still easy to spot. He was in a back booth, far from any other occupied table, finishing some steak and eggs and sipping on a watery bourbon. The dome of his shiny bald head was a perfect double for the bright spheres on the light poles lining the L.A. River.
Eddie Glass was a former LAPD patrolman turned constitutional lawyer. He was currently on track to be the next leader of the Los Angeles Police Protective League, the top police union in Los Angeles, which represented over 10,000 officers. Eddie was a controversial public figure, even more so than me. A lifetime ago, he was singled out as a problem officer in the Christopher Commission, an independent panel that proposed reforms in the wake of the 1991 police beating of Rodney King. The officers flagged by the commission were meant to exemplify the department’s alleged problem of excessive force. Fazion Letlow, the top crime reporter at the L.A. Times, called him names like the “Trump of police unions” and a “keyboard gangster.” Most cops loved Eddie passionately. He was their voice.
I sat across from him. An aging bleached blonde waitress named Marigold hovered.
“Do you have Veuve?”
“I can check for ya, hon.”
“It’s a complicated world,” Eddie said when Marigold had left. He wore a tan Members Only jacket. “Guys like us who are willing to make tough decisions are needed now more than ever.”
“Sounds like you’ve had to make some tough decisions lately.”
“I’m in at the LAPPL. It’s a lock.”
“Is it?”
“I know my way around Sacramento. As in, I’m blackmailing three different State Supreme Court judges who plan to rule this week on whether or not to end qualified immunity in the state.” Qualified immunity was a legal principle that prevented any cops from being sued for misconduct. A coalition of state politicians recently proposed an act to end it, and their scheme got a lot of hype in the media. A case was being tried in the Capitol. New York state had already repealed it. Most cops I knew didn’t want to lose it in California. Since I was never dumb enough to get caught with anything they could sue me for, I hadn’t thought much about it. “Two of the judges chase underage pussy. Another’s been taking bribes from tech bagmen. Qualified Immunity’s going to hold. Once it does, the Higher Ups will see that maintaining order means me in the top spot.”
The Higher Ups. The men who actually call the shots in the Southland.
“You’re George Jefferson, moving on up.” Marigold brought my Veuve. I watched the geezers at the nearest booth. They seemed unsure if they were standing or sitting.
“There aren’t a lot of men who know the truth left. That off-duty officer was justified in shooting that girl at Namaste Mart. Under me, the LAPPL will defend cops at all costs.”
“My partner Joe hates you guys. As much as a real Buddhist can hate someone.”
“Joe’s been talking to IAB.”
I swallowed. I didn’t like to think about it. I drank fast, hoping the alcohol would numb me. “I’m on my honeymoon. And I’m almost done with my drink.”
“To Aiyana Fleet, huh? That’s an extravagant development, even for you. Every cop has the fantasy he’s going to stick it to some rich broad he meets on the case, but you don’t just stick it to them serially, now you marry ‘em. I remember when that Rolling Stone cover of Aiyana dressed like jailbait first came out. Back then, it was a different world… seeing that judge overturn her conservatorship like that tells me I’m not the only one on LAPD who fucks with judges and their decisions. You’re too flashy, Pete.”
“Maybe you’ll arrive at the point?”
“The point is this: Remember that old wife beater?”
“Want to narrow it down?”
Eddie’s hair would have bristled if he had any. “Dalton Menendez.”
Long buried memories rose up. Dalton Menendez was a South L.A. wife-beater and probable child molester who had long been suspected of murdering a string of black prostitutes in the eighties. Officially, the “South Side Slayer” was never caught.
Early in my career, as a patrolman in the West L.A. Division and still trying to find my way, I murdered Dalton Menendez over my suspicions about his crimes and dumped him in the Pacific, a few miles out from the Long Beach Pier. It was a purely vigilante act. Three slugs to the face with my service weapon made certain he would never hurt any women or children ever again. He was my first, long before I figured out so many ways to profit personally from this behavior.
“Some rich deep-sea divers were in this mini robot submarine, exploring down there underwater, and randomly found the remains. The Higher Ups have been directly informed. The bullets from your service weapon in ‘96 have been pulled out of the corpse, intact enough for an I.D. after all these years.”
“Bullshit.”
“You’ve had a long run, Pete. It’s the stuff of legend, really. But this jackpot’s it for you, and it’s an old one. You were dumb enough to use your service weapon. But this time, there’s no escape. End of the line. The Higher Ups don’t care about what you know or who you just married. IAB has your partner cooperating and now they’ve got you for a cold case. They felt like you deserved a warning. They. Will. No. Longer. Protect you. There’s no amount of your pop star wife’s fortune you can pay them off with to change their mind.”
I finished my drink. “I’ve got to use the restroom.”
From inside the stall, I called Aiyana’s security team, who stayed at a hotel nearby. Before this, I had called them off, assuring them I was adequately trained to protect her. Askhan, her top man, answered.
“Get to her now,” I said. They could get to Las Palomas within five minutes. “Don’t let her out of your sight.”
“Understood.” I heard him moving into action. “What’s going on?”
“There’s a risk in the area. They won’t touch Aiyana, it would be too much heat. But I don’t want to take any chances.”
“Where are you?”
“Not relevant. She’s alone now. If I can, I’ll try and pull them in the other direction.”
I walked back out the front door the way I came. I unlocked my Challenger with the clicker and got in. Just as I put the key in the ignition, a man walked up to my driver’s side window and knocked on the glass. He was middle-aged, husky, and red-faced.
“Excuse me,” he said.
Knowing what this was, I rolled down my window and drew the two-tone Kimber .45 Raptor from my shoulder holster, pressed it to his heart, and squeezed three times. Smoke puffed out and his jacket caught fire. He pitched back fast onto the pavement, but the lack of blood at such a close range told me he was probably wearing Kevlar. I focused in and fired.
A chunk of his face evaporated.
A shotgun roared behind me. Glass misted my hair and my neck. Bits of dark yellow foam from my seat cushion soared through the air.
I ducked low and turned: A second man back there racked a Mossberg. His shot missed, ripping apart the passenger seat beside me. I gunned it in reverse and crushed him.
Then I put the car in drive and tore toward North Palm Canyon Drive. In my rearview, I heard another automatic firing at me, but its shots faded as I escaped down the road.
***
When I was on an empty stretch of highway and my rearview was clear, I switched off my lights, slowly rolling my decimated vehicle out into a desert field. There, I popped open the trunk and removed a burner phone. Out in the darkness, a coyote howled.
Aiyana said, “Are you okay?” Our connection was patchy.
I bet Eddie Glass was on TV right now, with Billy Reed’s in the background, making statements about the deaths of the LAPD men he’d sent to murder me because of the fear the Higher Ups had about me talking if I were to ever be arrested. He was surely milking the media attention to his advantage for the upcoming union election.
“All the bad things I’ve done… it’s too much to turn back.”
“What about them?”
We rarely discussed it, but Aiyana knew exactly who I was.
“When I said I loved you, I meant it. I’m grateful for you. I’m glad I could have helped you. But our marriage was a mistake.”
“I’m sorry, Pete.” She sounded sad but not surprised.
“I know you liked Melyda when you met her.”
“Pete, what are you going to do?”
“Just check on her and her cats from time to time, if it’s not too much trouble.” The coyote out there howled again. It sounded closer. Maybe there was more than one. “Promise me you’ll check in on her.”
“I promise I will. I’ll visit her and have her come visit me.”
“Goodbye, Aiyana. I hope you make the most of your freedom.”
“Goodbye, Pete.”
***
Ana Safarian, the reality TV and social media megastar, laid with her back to me in a white Jack Nicholson No Joke, We’re Back Lakers T-shirt and a thong.
She turned, facing me in the darkness. “I can’t stay much longer.”
“Is Mahad waiting?” I didn’t hide any of the sarcasm in my voice.
Mahad was Mahad Southern, the rapper. Ana’s husband. “I introduced you to your new wife, remember? Aiyana’s still a friend of mine.”
Ana’s enormous ass was outlined in pale blue from the moonlight. The number of injections she’d had in the past decade was absurd and unnecessary, but she still looked great.
After Palm Springs, I stole a car in Morongo Valley, then drove north and checked into a cottage up near Lake Hughes, on the edge of the Angeles National Forest. I used an assumed name and stayed here for a week and a half, preparing a final act for myself. Tonight was my last night here, so I called my old flame Ana, guessing she would probably make the journey to see me. Her convoy of security waited outside.
“I was so hopeful when our plane from Austria touched down in New York,” I said.
“When were you in Austria?”
“It was the first stop after my mother and I first left Russia as refugees from Communism.” The springs creaked as I got out of bed and opened a fresh bottle of Veuve. I poured us both a glass and got back in bed. I told her all about my Russian heritage as I drank more and more champagne. Moscow. My mother. My dreams. I did not speak about the elephants. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust Ana to hear about them. The time just wasn’t right.
“What’s going on with you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Whatever trouble you’re in these days seems bigger than usual.”
“I rationalized my behavior for so long.”
“Pete…”
“It all started decades ago when I convinced myself this shitbag was the Southside Slayer. Remember the Southside Slayer? You can’t. You’re too young. He was a serial killer in South L.A. I pretended my guy was the Slayer, but he wasn’t. My guy was a monster who didn’t deserve to live, but he wasn’t the Slayer. I found that out for certain after the fact. I wanted to be powerful, one of the people who made real decisions. I wanted to prove that the LAPD wasn’t going to get fucked with. I showed those animals what we can do. None of my targets were necessary, despite what I told myself at the time. The targets I picked, all my special ’causes’ always conveniently made me a pretty penny, let me spend a little more time in some extravagant situation. There was always something new I was gearing up to pay for.”
Then I handed her the sealed file that had been on my nightstand. Ana switched on her light for a closer look. “Don’t open it,” I said. “Just mail as many copies as possible to the media anonymously after you hear I’m in custody. Can you do that?”
She sat up. “What will you be in custody for?”
“This lawyer Edward Glass is poised to become the new head of the police union. I’ve come to see that things need to change in the LAPD. Let’s just say that Eddie isn’t the guy who will change them for the better. From here in this cabin, I made arrangements so that the next in line, after Eddie, would reform the police union. I made these documents for you to send to the media after I do what I’ve got to do, so no one stops what needs to happen. I’m not just going to turn everyone in. I’m going to say what I know.”
She finished her glass and laid back down on her side. I got in behind her and slowly began caressing her ass. She pressed herself against me. I turned her over, pulled her thong to the side, and spread her thighs. Then I paused to appreciate this moment.
Ana looked back. “I guess you won’t be getting any for a while.”
“I appreciate the proper sendoff.”
***
I stood at the ledge of the rooftop of the Conrad Hotel in downtown L.A., opened the oak-paneled case, and prepared a suppressed Barrett .50 Cal M107A1 on an MSG tripod so that it was ready to fire. The wind was strong tonight, especially this high up. A real sniper would be able to calculate the changes the wind would make in advance and factor them into the shot. Whether or not I would score a hit was going to be one of my last big gambles. I placed my finger on the trigger.
Down below on the street, the crowd began filing out. Eddie Glass would be somewhere in this audience. Tonight he was seeing the Marriage of Figaro at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. I knew this because he’d announced it on social media, or at least whoever ran his accounts did. The guy tried to kill me two weeks ago. Tonight he was just another man about town. Sometime soon, he would have to walk down 1st to return to his car. He would need to exit the Pavilion and show himself on the street. This would bring him in front of my line of sight.
Eddie appeared. His bald dome stuck out vividly in the crowd. He wore a black trench coat. His wife was with him.
I squeezed the trigger.
Eddie’s brains coated his wife’s glittering teal gown.
Others got misted. They began to scream first.
I let the Barrett rest. I stood, taking in the skyline. The first traces of LAPD sirens appeared. I saw their lights getting bigger.
***
The morning air was so cold I saw the steam on my breath. It had been another peaceful night of dreamless sleep. First, I did my morning meditation and then my workouts. Being free of my morning champagne and bacon was still a novelty and a welcome one. Just as I wrapped up my workout, my cell door slid open. Time for morning chow. As I ate alone, I sensed the wrathful eyes on me. I sensed them every day. After breakfast, I did my second meditation, then read for a while from a book by Alan Watts. Joe said I should look it up in the prison library.
Later, a guard walked me to the visiting room.
By now, the media sensation surrounding my case had died down. After Ana had sent the file to the press as I asked, I hadn’t spoken a word to anyone in the media throughout my trial, and they were starting to realize I never would. These days, there was really only one person who ever came to see me. There, on the other side of the dirty glass, was Joe, waiting with the phone already to his ear. He wore his faded yellow hippie tunic.
“I had a talk with some Intelligence guys about you.”
It was my understanding that among investigators from various agencies, my case was not closed yet, not completely. According to my attorney, it was widely believed that I had not fully come clean with some of the crimes I’d committed on behalf of the celebrity women in my life. They were correct about this, but the holes in my confessions would have to stay. I wasn’t going to talk. Joe knew this. Joe knew I knew this. He was here just as a friend. Joe being a spiritual mentor was always a legitimate part of our relationship and it is still intact these days.
“Oh yeah?” I said.
“They’re picking up rumors from prison snitches around you.”
“About what?”
“A possible greenlight. They couldn’t tell who was behind it, so they weren’t so sure how seriously to take it.”
I thought of the most honest way I could respond. “There’s too many candidates to count. I’m sure I couldn’t remember them all.”
“Otherwise… how have you been, Pete?”
I swore to myself I would finally speak about the elephants. “During my last stretch of freedom, I was having really vivid dreams of elephants on a stampede. After they passed, my daughter followed, just running along. That dream came every night after my marriage to Aiyana. For the past month that I’ve been in here, it’s stopped completely. I don’t just not have that dream anymore; I don’t have any.”
“Elephants clear the way. They flatten the unhealthy clutter. There’s an elephant god who is very passionately worshipped. His name is Ganesh.”
“I don’t feel bad about what’s happened. Specifically, I don’t regret my actions just before my arrest. However, I do regret much of my life before that.” I raised my head and straightened my shoulders, proud of myself to a degree I would have never thought possible. “My actions cleared the way.”
“Not how I would have handled it, but I get it.”
“Did the cop who shot that pregnant woman at the Boyle Heights Namaste Mart lose his shield yet?” I asked. “I’ve been waiting to hear.”
“The new union boss reviewed the case and came to different conclusions than Eddie Glass was spouting on the campaign trail. The Los Angeles Board of Police Commissioners found that the Namaste Mart cop’s actions violated LAPD policy. The officer resigned. He never should have been on the job in the first place. In that regard, you did good.”
I did something good. “Joe, keep an eye on Melyda. I know Aiyana sees her regularly, but Aiyana needs a babysitter herself sometimes.”
“You have my word.” Joe waited and smiled. “Want me to bring you anything next time I visit? Are you good on books?”
“Any book you think I’d like, please. I appreciate your reading list.”
Joe scratched his chin. “History?”
I shrugged. “I’ve had my share of World War 2. I think I’ve read every book that covers the alliance Churchill made with Stalin that was ever written. At least all the ones in English.”
“There’s a lot of other history I bet you know nothing about.”
“Bring that then.”
***
The TV in the day room played a KCET rerun of the show California’s Gold every weekday afternoon. The host, Huell Howser, visited various locations across the state and engaged with the locals in improvisatory, on-the-fly conversations. Much of what happened was mundane, but the great and genuine enthusiasm he brought to everything, combined with his Tennessee accent, turned so much of it into magic. Here at Terminal Island, Huell’s show was a hit with every sect. It was common to see warring groups hold a truce while California’s Gold was on. The convicts here today at Terminal Island looked at Huell on his adventures and dreamed about getting out someday so they could freely explore California, as Huell did for so many years. I, of course, was in the group that would never get out. But I still liked watching the show.
Two cholos from La Eme stood beside me. I didn’t hear them walk up. “Yo, that fool Huell knows where everything’s at, don’t he?” one said.
Today KCET was showing one of the most popular episodes in the series, an all-time classic. Charlie Franks, a long-retired elephant trainer, had spent a decades-long career in the circus and in film with his beloved elephant Neta before donating her to the San Diego Wild Life Preserve when he reached old age. Charlie was in assisted living these days, at the time Huell had tracked him down so his cameras could capture one last visit.
Two more La Eme cholos were on my other side. One was seriously jacked, obviously top-tier muscle. We all watched the show together:
Neta heard Charlie’s call and came to him, crossing a large stretch of the preserve to reunite with her old friend. Trainer and elephant went right back into their old circus routine as Huell narrated in his signature drawl. “I gotta tell you, I was standing there, watching this, breaking out in goosebumps,” he said. “It was like trainer and elephant hadn’t been apart for a day…”
I turned around. There’s cholo number five, his shiv in hand.
***
Aiyana put a bottle of cold Pol Roger down on her Carrara marble coffee table. Her favorite MSNBC show was on. She liked to watch it with a glass of wine.
On the floor, Melyda played with her cat Lady. Whenever it was time for her monthly visit, Melyda brought Lady along and let her run loose in the mansion.
Lady ran to the sliding glass door that led to the backyard and began chirping. She got up on her hind legs with her front paws pressing against the glass. She was focused.
“What does that noise Lady’s making mean?” Melyda asked.
Aiyana looked away from the anchor’s monologue. “She sees something she wants to kill,” Aiyana said.
Through the glass, Melyda saw a Blue Jay perched on the back ledge of a chaise lounge that sat close to the pool. “But Lady’s such a nice cat.”
Aiyana popped the cork.
Lady was so focused on the Blue Jay outside she ignored the sound of the cork, which normally startled her. Lady wanted only to kill.
“It’s not Lady’s choice to make that noise.”
“It’s not?”
Aiyana poured herself a flute. “It’s a part of evolution. She’s responding to the visual stimulus, but it’s also a way to lull the bird into a false sense of security. She’s trying to sound like the bird so the bird isn’t threatened. If the glass door wasn’t there, Lady would probably get pretty vicious, like some nature channel stuff.”
“But what about when Lady cuddles with me? Doesn’t she decide to be nice then?”
“Yes, of course. Some things animals can decide for themselves. Other things they can’t. People are the only ones who can pick for everything.”
Not sure if she agreed with this, Melyda closed the curtains.
— Andrew Miller is an author and screenwriter. Namaste Mart Confidential, his debut novel, was published by Run Amok Crime in 2024. His novella Lady Tomahawk appeared in L.A. Stories from Uncle B. Publications. His short stories have appeared in Starlite Pulp Review, APOCALYPSE CONFIDENTIAL, Close to The Bone, Pulp Modern, Switchblade, and many others. His X handle is @AndyMiller1313.