Free Cole McGinnis 05 - Down and Dirty by Rhys Ford Page A

passersby, much like a pitcher plant tickles flies’ senses with the scent of honey and splashes of color.
    And from what Ichiro could see, Downtown LA was just as deadly, especially while driving, and he wouldn’t have been at all surprised if he came upon a minotaur in the city’s labyrinth of streets.
    A forced right turn, and Ichi stared in amazement at the brick edifice he’d been hunting for. Ignoring an irritated honk from a man in a listing delivery truck, he jammed past a line of traffic, then parked his Jeep in a pockmark of asphalt set aside for the converted paper mill Bobby lived in. Pulling a brown grocery bag out of the backseat, Ichi gathered up a stray zucchini that’d gone rogue during his drive, then locked the doors behind him, hoping he hadn’t parked in someone’s covered space, because the last thing he wanted to deal with was springing the Jeep from car jail.
    “No, the last thing you want to face is Dawson.” Juggling the bag and his keys, Ichiro pressed an intercom button at the building’s entrance, hoping Bobby was home.
    The buildings’ half-underground parking level was tenant only, and while he could peek through the level’s grated half-moon openings, it was too dark to see anything other than shapes and a spot of bright color where a neon green Volkswagen Bug waged its own battle with Los Angeles’s fine buff grit.
    “Yeah?” Bobby’s gruff voice crackled across the intercom. Before Ichi could answer, the older man snapped out, “Ichi? That you? What the hell?”
    The door buzzed, and Ichiro took it as a cue for him to go on up. He vaguely remembered passing through the glass-enclosed lobby with its sleek black floors and steel door elevators, but for the life of him, he couldn’t recall the number of Bobby’s loft. A glance at a bank of old-fashioned filigree mailboxes helped, especially since the residents of the building appeared to be in it for the long haul, because each box boasted an engraved plaque and loft number above its scrollwork front.
    “Two-oh-six,” he repeated after he got off the elevator and wandered into the hall. Curiously, the elevator appeared to have dumped him on a hallway nestled against the side of the building, with tall windows stretching nearly floor to ceiling to let in the Los Angeles evening’s neon and orange light. With six doors to choose from, Ichi followed a trail of increasing numbers until he got to a thick steel door at the end of the hall. Looking around, he shook his head in amazement. “Don’t remember jack about this place. Sheesh. How out of it was I?”
    “Pretty jacked,” Bobby answered gruffly through the partially open door. It swung open the rest of the way, and the man stepped into the threshold, taking up most of the space. “What are you doing here?”
    He’d seen the riot video on the shop’s television while he’d been unpacking ink, and in every single angle and frame, Bobby Dawson went down hard into the cement and then up against the side of a police car, his arms stretched up until his elbows nearly reached his skull. Ichi’s spine ached every time one of the seemingly endless video clips played, as apparently every amateur moviemaker was shopping on that corner.
    The rasp of cement burn on his cheek did not detract from Bobby’s strong, handsome face. He’d not shaved, probably to avoid scraping at the speckled scatter of healing skin, and the silver-fleck scruff gave him a slightly piratical look—or at least added to his already roguish appearance. His short dark brown hair stood up a little bit, ruffled away from his face, probably from a rake of fingers through the thick strands before he answered the door. His mouth was hard, its edges tight over his firm jaw, and Bobby’s odd light brown eyes were hooded, turned to shadow from his long lashes. Topping Ichiro’s decent height by a few inches, he looked down at his unexpected visitor, then shrugged.
    “Sunshine, I’ve got no patience for a