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Tattooed Angel
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Chapter 1:- Rain
The rain beat down on Los Angeles as if it meant to pound the city flat. It was surreal, a work of art with ugliness replacing beauty, discordance replacing harmony. Shawn drove slowly through the deserted warehouse district as if for the first time, though he had done this drive every day for months. Yet here he was, threading his way between the drab, gray structures.
“Getting a place down here seemed like a good idea once, but today, not so much,” thought Shawn, shaking his head, wishing he was home already with a warm soup in his hands.
It was his uncle's idea. "You work downtown, you might as well live downtown," he said. "That way you don't have the traffic to contend with."
“Still, on a Friday in a cloud burst,” thought Shawn Cauver, “he's got a point. I could be stuck on the freeway, I suppose.”
Now here he was on the empty streets in a forgotten part of L.A. in one of the worst rains of the season, visibility zero. The rain was coming so hard that the wipers, sadly showing too much neglect, couldn't handle it. Shawn couldn't see enough through the windshield to know where he was.
“Great!” Shawn said aloud. “I might be right outside my place and not know it.”
The larger building on the right seemed familiar, but all else was uniform gray in the darkness of a stormy afternoon. He slowed to see if he could read an address, or even find an address to read in this neglected section of town. The workers who came in crammed in cars or walking from the bus stop didn't care about the streets or buildings; it was someone else's to worry about. The managers who came to manage the workers didn't care, that was for the owners; they got all the money anyway. The owners never came here; it was depressing and they didn't make enough from their businesses to have to put up with coming down to a depressing place.
So, the walls didn't get repainted, the sidewalks didn't get swept and broken windows got boarded over but never fixed. The result was a solid wall of gray from the street to the buildings and, today, all the way to the sky. Lost amid the gray, Shawn could distinguish nothing. He urged the aging Toyota through the potholes and dips, pausing at the stop sign only because he wasn't sure what street he was on.
A crash on his hood made him jump. Had he hit someone? No, someone had hit him. There was someone out there who had just run into his car from the side, someone small. Was it a child?
Shawn squinted, hoping it would help bring the offending person into focus. To his surprise, it was a girl, a soaking wet girl. She moved quickly to the the passenger side door of his car and pulled on the handle. The door was locked, so she banged on the window with a fist, her face contorted. Shawn hit the door-unlock without thinking and the girl pulled the handle, jumped in the front seat and slid down to the floor. There she lay, wet and shivering.
Many things registered with Shawn in that instant: One was that the girl was afraid, quivering with fear as well as cold. Another was that she must have been running, as she was out of breath. The third, and perhaps most notable thing, was that she was stark naked.
Another body appeared through the rain, this one a man, larger and hooded. Over his left arm was a yellow robe, fluttering in the stiff wind like a brightly colored flag. In his right hand was a pistol and he pointed it through the windshield. He moved to the passenger door of his car and reached for the handle.
From a distance, behind Shawn, came a series of sharp sounds—pistol-cracks—common enough in this neighborhood. The man was immediately distracted and ran in the direction of the shots. Shawn stepped on the gas and went around the next corner, scanning for a landmark, something to guide him home.
The girl was small and folded up on the floor of the front seat, clutching her shoulders with the cold. Her hair was black, tangled and dripping wet. She looked up at him, her eyes pleading for mercy and kindness.
She was Asian, with a tiny, Japanese face like on a cola ad, only with blue lips—she was cold. On her back was an outline of a tree with flowers, some of which looked recently inked in with white tattoo ink.
Lights appeared in the rear-view mirror. Shawn glanced at the girl; the large eyes went wider still as she felt the presence of another car. The lights swung around in a wide u-turn, heading back toward the gunfire.
Shawn reached into the back seat, grabbed his jacket and threw it over the girl cowering next to him. He pushed the heat up to full and directed the brunt of it to the floor. A slender hand found the edge of the coat and pulled it closer.
The building on the corner with the blue, faded awning was familiar, so he turned the corner and sped down two blocks to the warehouse he called home, at least for the last three months. In the road ahead, headlights appeared, coming fast. Shawn maintained speed, trying to look casual.
“No one is ever here at this hour,” thought Shawn, “especially on a Friday, getaway-day.” The car sped passed him; heads turned to regard him behind dark, tinted glass. “A black car with darkened windows—how L.A. can you get?” he thought.
In the rear-view mirror, he saw the car go through the intersection and around the corner, too fast and too wide. At least they weren't stopping him to do a search.
At the garage door, he pulled up close, regretting not getting an automatic opener when he had the chance, but this was not a time for recriminations. He sprinted from the car to the door, key in hand, trying to work the lock, his hands shaking; the rain pelting him. When he got the lock open, he pulled upwards on the handle, rolling the great door back, then jumped into the car, started it back up and pulled it into the warehouse. Once inside, he returned to the roll-up door and jumped for the handle, taking his whole weight to pull it down. On the ground Shawn huddled, shaking, still holding the door handle. His heart was beating a samba in his chest and his breath was fast and shallow.
At the sides of the door were interior locks, two pegs to shove in through the side of the door and into the wall. Shawn looked up, as if to make sure they were still there, then leaped up. He shoved the right peg in place, then the left, standing back to see his handiwork.
“That should hold them!” he thought. No one could open the door from the outside with the pegs in. Of course, he hoped no one would try. With any luck they were all chasing the sound of gunfire.
Shawn became aware of the engine still running behind him, and the wet, naked girl huddled in his front seat.
The rain beat down on Los Angeles as if it meant to pound the city flat. It was surreal, a work of art with ugliness replacing beauty, discordance replacing harmony. Shawn drove slowly through the deserted warehouse district as if for the first time, though he had done this drive every day for months. Yet here he was, threading his way between the drab, gray structures.
“Getting a place down here seemed like a good idea once, but today, not so much,” thought Shawn, shaking his head, wishing he was home already with a warm soup in his hands.
It was his uncle's idea. "You work downtown, you might as well live downtown," he said. "That way you don't have the traffic to contend with."
“Still, on a Friday in a cloud burst,” thought Shawn Cauver, “he's got a point. I could be stuck on the freeway, I suppose.”
Now here he was on the empty streets in a forgotten part of L.A. in one of the worst rains of the season, visibility zero. The rain was coming so hard that the wipers, sadly showing too much neglect, couldn't handle it. Shawn couldn't see enough through the windshield to know where he was.
“Great!” Shawn said aloud. “I might be right outside my place and not know it.”
The larger building on the right seemed familiar, but all else was uniform gray in the darkness of a stormy afternoon. He slowed to see if he could read an address, or even find an address to read in this neglected section of town. The workers who came in crammed in cars or walking from the bus stop didn't care about the streets or buildings; it was someone else's to worry about. The managers who came to manage the workers didn't care, that was for the owners; they got all the money anyway. The owners never came here; it was depressing and they didn't make enough from their businesses to have to put up with coming down to a depressing place.
So, the walls didn't get repainted, the sidewalks didn't get swept and broken windows got boarded over but never fixed. The result was a solid wall of gray from the street to the buildings and, today, all the way to the sky. Lost amid the gray, Shawn could distinguish nothing. He urged the aging Toyota through the potholes and dips, pausing at the stop sign only because he wasn't sure what street he was on.
A crash on his hood made him jump. Had he hit someone? No, someone had hit him. There was someone out there who had just run into his car from the side, someone small. Was it a child?
Shawn squinted, hoping it would help bring the offending person into focus. To his surprise, it was a girl, a soaking wet girl. She moved quickly to the the passenger side door of his car and pulled on the handle. The door was locked, so she banged on the window with a fist, her face contorted. Shawn hit the door-unlock without thinking and the girl pulled the handle, jumped in the front seat and slid down to the floor. There she lay, wet and shivering.
Many things registered with Shawn in that instant: One was that the girl was afraid, quivering with fear as well as cold. Another was that she must have been running, as she was out of breath. The third, and perhaps most notable thing, was that she was stark naked.
Another body appeared through the rain, this one a man, larger and hooded. Over his left arm was a yellow robe, fluttering in the stiff wind like a brightly colored flag. In his right hand was a pistol and he pointed it through the windshield. He moved to the passenger door of his car and reached for the handle.
From a distance, behind Shawn, came a series of sharp sounds—pistol-cracks—common enough in this neighborhood. The man was immediately distracted and ran in the direction of the shots. Shawn stepped on the gas and went around the next corner, scanning for a landmark, something to guide him home.
The girl was small and folded up on the floor of the front seat, clutching her shoulders with the cold. Her hair was black, tangled and dripping wet. She looked up at him, her eyes pleading for mercy and kindness.
She was Asian, with a tiny, Japanese face like on a cola ad, only with blue lips—she was cold. On her back was an outline of a tree with flowers, some of which looked recently inked in with white tattoo ink.
Lights appeared in the rear-view mirror. Shawn glanced at the girl; the large eyes went wider still as she felt the presence of another car. The lights swung around in a wide u-turn, heading back toward the gunfire.
Shawn reached into the back seat, grabbed his jacket and threw it over the girl cowering next to him. He pushed the heat up to full and directed the brunt of it to the floor. A slender hand found the edge of the coat and pulled it closer.
The building on the corner with the blue, faded awning was familiar, so he turned the corner and sped down two blocks to the warehouse he called home, at least for the last three months. In the road ahead, headlights appeared, coming fast. Shawn maintained speed, trying to look casual.
“No one is ever here at this hour,” thought Shawn, “especially on a Friday, getaway-day.” The car sped passed him; heads turned to regard him behind dark, tinted glass. “A black car with darkened windows—how L.A. can you get?” he thought.
In the rear-view mirror, he saw the car go through the intersection and around the corner, too fast and too wide. At least they weren't stopping him to do a search.
At the garage door, he pulled up close, regretting not getting an automatic opener when he had the chance, but this was not a time for recriminations. He sprinted from the car to the door, key in hand, trying to work the lock, his hands shaking; the rain pelting him. When he got the lock open, he pulled upwards on the handle, rolling the great door back, then jumped into the car, started it back up and pulled it into the warehouse. Once inside, he returned to the roll-up door and jumped for the handle, taking his whole weight to pull it down. On the ground Shawn huddled, shaking, still holding the door handle. His heart was beating a samba in his chest and his breath was fast and shallow.
At the sides of the door were interior locks, two pegs to shove in through the side of the door and into the wall. Shawn looked up, as if to make sure they were still there, then leaped up. He shoved the right peg in place, then the left, standing back to see his handiwork.
“That should hold them!” he thought. No one could open the door from the outside with the pegs in. Of course, he hoped no one would try. With any luck they were all chasing the sound of gunfire.
Shawn became aware of the engine still running behind him, and the wet, naked girl huddled in his front seat.
