Free Hard Play by Kurt Douglas

Old. Banged up.”
    “Thanks,” Frank said again, his jaw loosening a bit to allow some sincerity into his words.
    Frank flicked the broken smoke into the trashcan and shot Kavakian a straight-faced glare, his jaw clenched, making no effort to hide the bitterness behind his steely blue eyes. As Frank reached the makeshift cage, he took his attention off Kavakian and place it on the knob before him. The buzzers sounded in time, allowing him a seamless exit from the shop floor, through the lobby and out into the Beamer-filled parking lot. As Frank got into his Ambassador, he hoped the car he had mashed beside him was Kavakian’s. He mashed his car door into the white Beamer one more time for good measure, then peeled out of the lot.
    It didn’t take Frank very long to wind up Beachwood Avenue into the Hollywood Hills below the Hollywood sign. As he pulled onto Mulholland, Frank spotted a group of cars parked in a dirt turnout. Amongst them, he noticed a dark green Taurus with a broken taillight and a bungee cord holding its trunk shut. He pulled over.
    Frank stood at the Taurus, peering into the windows. The floorboards were covered in empty cans of Monster and Five-Hour Energy and crumpled foil wrappers that once held protein bars. The seats were torn and patched with duct tape. The back seat was just as much a wreck as the front; at least a week’s worth of grocery trash, fitness magazines strewn about, and a couple of duffel bags stuffed full. Looked like Chad was heading somewhere. But, it wasn’t the duffel bags that caught Frank’s attention. It was the half-empty roll of cellophane that drew his eye.
    He decided to check the trunk. After all, it was only bound shut with a bungee. Frank moved around to the back of the car. It smelled rank. After yesterday morning, he anticipated a body as he reached his finger under the bungee’s hook, freeing it from the frame. The trunk popped open and the foul stench spilled out and over Frank. Dirty laundry. Nothing in the trunk but dirty laundry.
    As he stood with his arm overhead, propping the trunk open and staring down at the shit-stained boxer briefs and sweat-stained shirts, Frank heard a commotion behind him. Turning, he let the trunk fall; it bounced behind him as he watched a couple dart down the hill in a panic.
    They were both clad in matching trendy jogging attire typical of the Hollywood Hills types—water bottles clipped to their shorts and flashy jogging shoes cradling their feet. Yuppie runners. The man shouted into his cell phone as his wife clung to his arm. Frank couldn’t make out their words, but he could see the desperation in their faces. Their eyes stricken by horror and their mouths curled downward in disgust. The woman stopped, holding her hand over mouth as her body heaved up and down. She reached for her husband’s arm, but he didn’t notice. He kept shouting into his cell phone and pointing back up the hill, continuing rapidly toward Frank and the group of cars.
    As the man came within earshot of Frank, he heard him say, “A fucking body! How many times do I have to say it? There’s a goddamn body in the hills.”
    In the distance, the contents of his wife’s stomach rose to her throat. She gagged. Then, with one big heave, her mouth let loose and her breakfast spilled out onto the dirt at her feet. She heaved once more then stood and wiped the bile from her chin.
    “Please tell me they’re coming,” she begged her husband.
    He held his hand up to her and turned away, his attention on the phone. “Yeah. We can wait at the bottom of the hill... Yeah... Okay.”
    A handful of other joggers came down the hill, but they didn’t seem to have had the same gut-wrenching experience as the couple. They didn’t even take note of the panicked joggers. Many of them still had their earbuds plugging up their heads and sweat dripping down their brows and into their eyes. Three Dobermans dragged an old lady nearly end over end as they sprinted down