Broken Angel


Carefully the almost naked, slender man/boy looking figure ran through the empty night streets of Hollywood, evading and surely, slowly being herded by three police vehicles cruising steadily, seeming almost leisurely, a few blocks behind, carefully looking for signs of the fugitive. Driving with no headlights, they used their spots sparingly. Even though they looked legitimate, just one call into the precinct and all three cars of cops would have some heavy explaining to do to the watch commander. All any of them wanted to do was to catch the faggy little bastard and get on with their lives.

Gus Kroch, a fifty-year-old patrolman was driving car 309. His pig like face was screwed up in intense concentration as he both watched where he was driving and kept scanning both sides of the street and the alleys as they passed on. "Shit." he exclaimed, "I know the little bastard hasn't doubled back behind us. If he had, one of the others would have spotted him. He has to keep on going this way. If he makes it past this area, and gets to the cliffs, we got him. Not even a goat can make it down to the beach from the west end of Sunset. All of the houses around there are wired to the hilt with security. We'll get him."

Jorge Dominguez, a patrolman who was a ten-year veteran of graft and drug sales had his Colt Model 1910 forty-five caliber automatic pistol held at the ready in both hands. "Just let me see him for just a second and he's history." he said matter-of-factly.

At the ripe old age of thirty-four he had the dubious distinction of setting the record for the most one on one shootouts in the history of the Los Angeles Police Department. In every case, there was a twenty-two revolver, a cheap "Saturday night special" lying next to the corpse to attest to the "fact" the shooting was indeed righteous. The dead person would also have two perfectly spaced holes in his chest, one on the right and one on the left. One of Jorge's partners in crime, a fellow officer and fellow member of the twelve cops who made up the "Dirty Dozen" as they referred to themselves to each other, claimed Jorge was the coldest killer he had ever seen. "The man has no feelings at all when he's on the hunt," he confided once after a profitable assassination.

All twelve were wealthy from prostitution, drugs, extortion, blackmail and contract killings. When each of the members of the Dirty Dozen had five million dollars socked away they were all going to retire within a year of each other and disappear. They were all now in the last half of the fifth million and looking forward to becoming residents of another country.

The escaped "model" was merely a minor inconvenience to be dealt with and forgotten. Just who did the little punk think he was, splitting from the sex party like that? They told him his freedom was only a matter of time; but first he had to make the "gentleman from San Francisco happy." Just as they barely got to the barricades at the end of Sunset Boulevard Kroch yelled, "There he is."

Dominguez jumped out of the slowly moving prowl car and pulled the trigger once, seeming not to aim. There was a scream and the sight of the young body falling forward and down the face of the cliff. "I never miss," he said as he replaced the spent shell. He picked up the used casing out of habit and put it in his pocket.

The two cops walked over to the precipice and looked down at a dim human shape form many feet below. "Should we climb down and check?" Kroch reluctantly asked. He definitely did not relish the idea of hauling his beer and doughnut bloated body down the face of the steep cliff.

Dominguez looked at his partner and answered disdainfully, "Hell, I couldn't make it down there, let alone you. I'll just pop another cap in him and we'll get out of here before someone sees us. He drew his automatic, pulled the trigger once and watched with satisfaction as the figure jerked violently once and lay still. He nodded his satisfaction and the two got back in the car and left.

Below at the foot of the cliff, a second man shape hesitantly crawled over to the freshly killed body Dominguez thought was his quarry. One look at the vacant staring eyes told the young man he could not help the dead man. Whimpering, he dragged himself away to the small twelve-foot rental boat with the outboard engine. He crawled in, weakly pulled the cord to start the engine and aimed toward the open sea with the last of his strength. He didn't know where he was going, nor did he care. All he knew for certain was that he had to get away from where he was...

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