The Voting Machine

The Crown Jewel

I walked to the freeway ramp on Century Avenue where beggars hold out signs for drivers exiting the 405 for the airport. One homeless guy was camped out, leaning against a shopping cart full of rags, his Dodgers caps shielding his face from the sun. He seemed to be still winding down from his high because he was too dazed to argue when I snatched his cap and cart away.

"That's mine, man," he complained.

"Trust me, I need them more than you."

He yelled profanities in my direction as I scuttled down Century, careful to make sure he didn't get a glimpse of my face. I turned left and cut through the heart of Inglewood, winding my way Culver City by foot. There were enough cart pushers in this part of town that even the cop cars didn't give me a second glance. I left my prop by the main gates of Holy Cross Cemetery, a quiet, beautiful spot that seemed far removed from the bustle of the west side of the city. A scene of the crucifixion was etched into the stone face of the reception hall, framed by two sun-dappled palm trees. A trio of groundskeepers chattered in Spanish as they circled the mausoleums with leaf-blowers and hedge clippers.

I knew this place was a famous final resting place for many old movie stars and I wondered how long it would be before some tourists arrived. I approached Gina's grave, the site that Larry and I had visited together over the summer. But there was no sign of my old friend. I wondered whether his coded message was just a ruse to lure me into a trap. Maybe I had judged him wrong and he'd decided to turn on me. I half-expected a Homeland Security chopper to swarm out of the sky, pinning me down on the lawn of the cemetery.

I bent my knees in front of Gina's head stone, reciting her epitaph.

Born 1977 Died 2012

"What the heart has known it shall never forget"

"Temo," a deep voice whispered. The middle-aged black man was standing behind a row of podocarpus trees, using them as if they were camouflage. I had never seen the ex-cop scared like this.

"I was wondering if you'd come."

"We need to get somewhere indoors. You come here by car?" he asked, never making eye contact.

"I walked."

"Follow behind me at a distance and get in the back. The doors unlocked. I parked under two trees in case anyone is watching from overhead."

We drove west, crossing over La Cienega and passing the Randy's Donuts sign on our way to the industrial park where Larry maintained the local office for Ram's security company. Larry kept looking up through his windshield at every traffic stop, searching the sky for something. But the only things he found were commercial jets coming into LAX. When we reached Westchester, we entered his office from the back, through a fire door in the rear of the building.

"Where's your partner?" I asked him. The last time I visited his office, Larry was working closely with his apprentice Hernando. Hernando was the son of Jaime, the former head janitor at Passion, a young man still in his late teens. The boy had shown a talent for hacking and Ram paid for computer science classes at Loyola University.

"Jaime doesn't know you made contact. Better to keep him out of this. His father still doesn't have proper papers in the country. They could use that as leverage to get something out of him."

"Why'd you decide to trust me?" I asked once he'd locked the doors and closed the blinds.

"C'mon, Temo. That stuff on the news didn't make sense. Why would you kill Chang and Weisbein, the very same agents that saved you and Teresa in that high-rise last year?"