They Call it The City of Angels
A New Serial Novel by Joshua A. TRILIEGI
Exclusively for Readers of BUREAU of ARTS and CULTURE and
our Three sites in Los Angeles, San Francisco and New York City
All National & International Copy Rights Reserved to the Author
Chapter Seven: Charles
When the bus hit Charles' bags, his cart had lodged underneath
the front tire and saved his life. Although it tossed him several
yards, no bones were broken, no internal bleeding, just a few
road rashes and most likely, a concussion. When he finally
came to, there he was, sleeping in an actual bed with clean
cotton sheets and two pillows, the first time in several years.
He hadn't been in a hospital since Mickey was born. His
first thought was, "I gotta get out of here." , then he realized
that none of his possessions were anywhere to be seen. Where
were his clothes , his personal belongings, his savings ? Most
likely, he was going to have to answer some questions to the
man. Another thing he hadn't done in years. If they had gone
through his things, they would have found his dog tags and
maybe even contacted his family. Another thing he hadn't
done in the past few years. Damn, what had he done in the
past few years? Time had drifted through his life like a river
through the mountains or like wind through a tree. Drifted.
This was nothing compared to the many times he had to lay
down his Harley because of some god awful drivers not checking
their blind side, pulling out of the driveway without looking or
simply not paying attention to others on the road. He had to
lay his bike down at least a half a dozen times because of
other peoples stupidity. Being a biker in Southern California
was no easy task in the nineteen seventies. After losing a handful
of friends to total idiots, someone's wife started a campaign to
help Bikers who had been wronged on the roads and highways.
She ended up creating some kind of legislation and took it all
the way to the high courts. Charles admired her tenacity, but
that was not his style, he couldn't stand any of that legal stuff.
He was a simple man, enjoyed nature, food and a simple bottle
of wine. Those were the three things he had been able to partake
in for the past few years, come to think of it, that was all he had
done lately. He lived in the wilds of the coastline, drank a good
bottle or two of dago red a day and ate well, for a beachcomber.
No one ever suspected that he carried thousands of dollar bills.
When he opted out of all the side dealings that went on in his
world, his partners were glad to pay him out and let him go.
Charles had been getting too old for the game and although
he had respect, it was a young man's game now. He retired.
When Mickey picked up the phone and the voice on the other
end of the line simply stated, "This is the Venice Beach Police
department." He figured, it was either something to do with
his Mother's new boyfriend, the serial numbers on a recent
bike sale or some kids breaking into the shop. When they said
Mickey's father was in the hospital & they needed to reach
someone in the family, his ears began to ring, his heart beat
doubled and he broke into a sweat. They explained what had
happened and asked if he could come down to the station before
visiting the hospital. They had some of his possessions and also
had a few questions to ask. Mickey said he'd be right there. He
himself had more than a few questions to ask. Hadn't seen the
old man in almost a decade. Had thought he was dead. Now
he's about to have a family reunion in the very same hospital
where he was born. There was no way he was going to call his
mother, sister or Moon. It was something he had to do alone.
When he got to the station, two detectives sat at a table with
his Dad's four remaining bundles of cash in front of them.
Through the years, Mickey himself had been in and out of this
particular police station. Sometimes to bail out friends, other
times to sleep one off, after a fight, but this was the first time
he had been summoned to ask questions about anyone else and
actually showed up. He had never gotten involved in anyone
else's business nor did he want others involved in his: the biker
code of conduct. A long list of unwritten ways of living life.
This was a pedestrian Q & A. "When was the last time you
saw your Father?" , "What do you know about his business
partners ?" , "Why is your Dad carrying over thirty thousand
dollars in cash ?" Mickey didn't know anything and wouldn't
have said, even if he did. He was simply glad to know that
Charles was still alive and if they didn't mind, he wanted to
talk to him in person. The detectives expressed their concern
regarding the release of Charles from the hospital with all this
currency. They thought it best to contact a family member.
Mickey new better, but he played along, thanked them and
said he'd meet them at the hospital in thirty minutes time.
That gave him just enough time to call Moon, he had tried to
handle this on his own, but decided he needed to talk to her.
Called her at the bookstore from the phone booth in the
hallway and without explanation, "My Dad's alive. I'm
going to see him. I don't know what to expect. He's in
the hospital. I'll call you later. As soon as I know what's
what." Moon was in the middle of selling five old paper
back books to a couple on vacation from Europe. There
wasn't much she could say, "Wait a minute. What ?"
Mickey realized this was a mistake, "I'll call you back."
Moon was a stickler for details and in this case, he had
none to offer. When he got to the hospital room, Charles
had just finished telling a story and the two detectives were
laughing out loud. That's the way it always was. Charles
had a way with people, especially men of the blue collar
variety. "Hey Mick, How the hell are you ? Mickey just
shook his head slowly as a long, slow, single teardrop fell
onto his jean jacket vest's upper pocket and sat there before
hitting the linoleum tile and splashing into a miniature
Jackson Pollack like splatter that he stared at for a few
seconds. "I'm fine Dad, just fine. How the hell are you?"
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