Free Start Shooting by Charlie Newton

brand-new girl, a bright-and-shiny actress with no history, only future.
    “Hollywood” officially began after a juvenile court judge pulled me off the street and placed me in an L.A. County youth home run by a couple from South Africa. They were ex-military, tough and blunt Afrikaners, but protective. I stayed there until I could work my way into a crowded six-flat near Western and Wilshire. Every boy and girl in the building had both hands gripped on the show-business express. The Rodney King riots had just ended, and just like tonight, “L.A. Woman” was on the radio, Billy Idol singing to me over the sporadic pops and early days of the truce between the Koreans and the looters.
    Billy’d come in the Troubadour the night before, lit the place up, tipped me my first hundred, and left with every girl who could fit in his limo, a death-trip rock star who told me it was safe to walk with angels. I believed him, too starstruck to wonder how he’d know the angels’ intentions were good, that my trip wouldn’t be through the Old Testament.
    Rain splatters through my open window.
    Both hands begin to steady. The windshield’s clear.
    I could hide from Robbie at the L7 Bar with Julie. Julie McCoy’s my best friend … or the Playhouse Theater; talk to Ruben from safety. Threaten, talk,
something
. I could make a plan that includes my hopes and dreams. And safety—my back stiffens—feel good? Arleen Brennan, victim? Lap glance … the .38.
    I’m not a victim.
    My mom’s crucifix glints as I pass underneath a tight series of streetlights. The lights flash my
Streetcar
pages on the passenger seat then the .38 in my lap. Light to dark; dark to light. Is that the message? God gives me an asterisk on the Fifth Commandment? He’ll consider Robbie self-defense even if I shoot first? God doesn’t answer; the voice that does, doesn’t care about self-defense. He’s a recurring nightmare, always with the same solution:
Just pull the trigger
.
    And that’s what’ll happen if I go home to my apartment
—my goddamn house
. No threats, no discussion; just Robbie Steffen, the dark, and me.
    HORN. I jolt into the steering wheel and turn into a motel parking lot. Just get a grip, ease up long enough to
think
. Be
present
—you’re on the South Side, the L7 is way north, lots of cops between here and there—maybe they’re after me, maybe not. Robbie’s a cop, Ruben’s a cop—who knows what that means? My phone rings. R UBEN V ARGAS on the screen. I don’t answer. It rings again. R UBEN V ARGAS .
    “Stop calling me, goddamnit.”
    I look left. A squad car is alongside my window, the cop staring at me. I jolt back, then struggle the window all the way down.
    He says, “Nice car.”
    Actress smile. Heart hammering.
    “Are you all right, miss?”
    “Ah, yeah.” I point at the motel. “Checking in, got a call and—Sorry.”
    He nods. “You’re stopped in the middle of the road.”
    “Shit. Sorry.” I drive into the parking lot I thought I was in, stop, kill the lights and engine, pop the door, and—
BLOOD on your blouse
. Cop still watching me.
    Can’t sit here.
    Can’t drive away. Mirror check. The cops know something’s wrong.
    Deep breath; do something;
move
.
    Purse to chest, I slide out into the rain with my shoulder to the police car, shut the door, and walk fast toward the motel office. Please, please, please, give me this one.

Officer Terry Rourke died in his front yard, shot to death from a slow-passing 1962 Chevrolet Bel Air. His daughter, Siobhán, died with him. Two thousand Chicago police officers attended their funeral. Before the sun had set on that snowy day in February, 29 Hispanic members of the Twenty-Trey Gangsters had been arrested. Four were killed and 16 critically injured
.
    —“ MONSTER ,” by Tracy Moens; © 2011
Chicago Herald
OFFICER BOBBY VARGAS
FRIDAY , 8:00 PM
    Meeting here at the Levee Grill,
now
, my brother is taunting the lion, telling the FBI: Suck my dick.
    Out front,