Spin

thirty-eight.

Did I have hours? Days? Was the time between now and Daniel’s warrant measured in minutes? And what did I want to do about it?

I put the top down on my dented car as I drove home, as if the extra smog intake would clear my head. But the 10 freeway at rush hour was no place to get my head together.

Antonio had dumped me in no uncertain terms. I owed him nothing. If he got dragged into a black and white tomorrow, it would have nothing at all to do with me. But that image of him in cuffs, for anything, made me pull off onto Crenshaw.

I still had his phone. I swallowed my pride and dialed, heart pounding from the first ring, then the second, then the voicemail announcement. I hung up. I didn’t know if I was being ignored or if some smaller insult was being hurled, and I didn’t want to think about it.

I plugged the phone into my stereo and listened to Puccini. Could I call East Side Motors? Should I just go? It was about five fifteen. The drive would take me a good forty minutes.

I headed east. When I passed downtown, I’d decide.

I saw smoke on the horizon as I went east on the 10. Wildfires were a fact of Southern California life, especially at points north and east of Los Angeles, so I thought nothing of it. Then the traffic on Figueroa was diverted to Marmion, and I heard sirens and saw flashing lights on the flats, not the wooded hills. I parked and walked a block south and two east, smoke choking me. A crowd had gathered at the curb, and the police were hard-pressed to keep them safe from their own curiosity.

“There are underground gas tanks,” one cop said to a guy who wanted to cross the street. “They blow, and you’re gonna be grease. So get back.”

The man got back, and I stepped in his place for half a second to confirm what I knew to be true. East Side Motors was up in flames.

I walked to my car. I knew where Antonio’s house was, more or less, but it was very close to the shop, and the fire trucks had blocked off that street. He wasn’t getting out without being seen, and neither was I.

I scrolled through my phone, the one without Puccini and Verdi. Did I have Paulie’s number? Zo’s? Would any of them listen to me or would they just be relieved I was gone? I needed someone I could trust. Someone who had an emotional enough connection to Antonio that I could count on their loyalty.

I felt fit to burst. I needed to tell Antonio what Daniel had told me. I didn’t need to make sure I didn’t have any tissues at his house. I didn’t need to clear myself of malfeasance. I needed to make sure I’d done everything to get him out of Daniel's way.

It occurred to me late, almost too late. Too late for me to claim innocence.

I was bait. I was doing exactly what I was supposed to do: going to Antonio and leading the authorities right to him.

“Daniel, you fucking bastard.”

I’d never felt so used, so whored in my life. I drove away as fast as I could with the top down, west on Marmion. Was my phone tracked? Who knew what Daniel had done while we were together. If he felt no compunction in tracking my credit card purchases, why wouldn’t he track my phone?

At a red light, I wrote down a number from my call history then tossed the thing in a bus stop garbage can. It smacked against the back of the wire mesh and dropped onto a pile of ketchup-covered fast food bags.

I unplugged Antonio’s phone and called the number at the next light. If his phone wasn’t secure, I didn’t know what would be.

“Hello?”

“Marina? This is Theresa Drazen. I’d like to meet with you.”

She barked a laugh. “About what? I told you he’d never be with you.”

My heart jumped into my throat, as if deciding it needed to be eaten rather than tolerate this. I swallowed hard. “It’s business.”

“I’m not in the business.”

“That’s why I want to talk to you.”

She didn’t answer right away. “What then?”

“It’s not what you think. Where is good for you?”

“Dunno. Things are a little crazy with the men right now.”

“I know. I’m on Marmion, if that helps.”

“Yeah,” she said sharply, as if coming to a decision. “Sure, yeah. Come by Yes Café, off La Carna. Ten minutes.”

“Thank you.”

She didn’t hear me apparently, because she’d hung up.